


How to Heal a Broken Heart

by nocturneequuis



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 178,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis
Summary: One victory does not a relationship fix. Imelda may love Héctor, but old wounds take the longest to heal. Héctor wants to do what is best for Coco, but a century of hurt is hard to overcome.A story of the present, past, and a future yet to be





	1. At the Aftermath of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the end is not as they expected... but with a new beginning comes the thought of: what now?

Héctor was dying. Around them the sky was lightening with the soft blue and pink and yellow of sunrise. The auditorium had emptied, security guards came and went, and it was just them alone on the platform in the quiet hush on the sunrise after  _Dias de las Muertos._  He shuddered again, the light flicking through him and Imelda felt another tug deep in her throat where there was nothing to be pulling. It was surreal, she thought, as she stroked his tired dark hair from the greying bone of his forehead, that it should end this way. The whirlwind of a night. So much changing all at once. And then this. It didn’t seem like it should be happening. But death was like that. Once it got started it didn’t stop, not for anyone, no matter how unfair it seemed.

“Imelda,” he whispered, as if even speaking was difficult. He met her eyes and she held his gaze, even if it made the sorrow deeper. Even his eyes were dull. Whatever light had been in them fading as they seemed to sink slowly into the darkness. He reached up for her, wincing, barely having the strength. She took his hand in both of hers, bone against bone. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and with some great effort, he tried again: “Tell-- Tell, Coco…”

“Yes _…_  I will tell her…” She took a breath to steady her own voice and it still came out as a shaky murmur. “I will tell her everything. You won’t be forgotten here.”

He smiled.

Closed his eyes.

Sighed.

Imelda braced herself, anchoring herself in the present. The sky. Her  _familia_ watching, hats in their laps and looking down-wards, not wanting to see. She didn’t either. If she could look away, she would. But to face whatever came was her pride and something they expected of her. So she watched him. Imelda hadn’t seen it happen, this Final Death, but she had heard of it. She had been told how the golden light consumed the _olvidado,_ the forgotten, and carried them away to-- some mysterious unknown. Somewhere far away and unreachable.

Héctor shuddered, bones rattling their last tired beat against one another, the hard floor…

Then his eyes shot open, making her jump, something manic in them. Was he seeing something terrible?

“Héctor…?” she whispered. He looked at her and said something, but no sound came out. She touched his jaw, caressed it, wondering if he was in pain.

“She…” he said, voice raspy. “She…She… remembers!”

“ _What_?” Imelda said. What was-- He shuddered again and then threw back his head and laughed, the rich sound bringing a smile of her own even as something uncertain zinged through her bones.

“She  _remembers! Mi Coco. Mija! Yipa~!”_ In an electric movement he bounced to his feet arms spread wide, belting out a grito that seemed to spread to the whole city, dancing in place.

 “Ahh!  _Thank you, gordito_.” He put a hand to his chest. “ _Mijo…”_

She watched him, jaw hanging open, frozen in place and uncertainty for the first time she could ever remember. He turned to them, arms still spread, grin wide.

“What do you think, hey? Looks like I’m going to be around for a while after all!”

They stared at him. His grin started to droop.

“Coco?” Julio said, clutching the brim of his hat. “She remembers you?”

“ _Sí!”_ Héctor shuddered a third time, nearly losing a tibia in the process. “Oh, that was a big one!”

She was on her feet before she knew it, something like a heart surging in her, through her. Without thinking she threw herself at him. He caught her in solid arms, swinging her around and laughing and she clung tight, not knowing whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

“You  _idiota!_ ” She said when they’d finally stopped, whacking a closed fist against his collarbone. “Don’t scare me like that! I really thought you were going to die!”

“I know. Me too. Seems like not yet.”

“You had me scared, too,” Oscar said, wrapping an arm around Héctor’s shoulders.

“Terrified,” Filipe echoed, wrapping an arm around his other shoulder.

“Petrified.”

“Horrified.”

Héctor laughed.

“You two haven’t changed a bit.”

Imelda fought the urge to push her brothers off. This was her time. She wasn’t done wanting to hug him until his ribs creaked. The thought startled her and she stepped back, let go, Héctor seemed to reach for her but then was crowded by the twins who were busy congratulating him and Rosita who came nearer to wiggle her fingers in a nervous hello, giggling a little. Victoria stood nearby, frowning, hugging her arm, uncertain. Julio was still looking down at his hat, fingers working, sniffling a little though there was nothing to sniff. No tears either, but not for lack of wanting them. She put a hand on his shoulder, wondering if he was missing Coco more than ever right now-- this could mean she might live a little longer after all. But when he looked up at her he was beaming under his mustache and warmth spread through her. What a good husband Julio was. Had been. Would be.

“Ah! I feel like dancing! We should have a  _fiesta_ ,  _muchachos_! Drinks are on me!” Héctor said.

“You have money?” Oscar said.

“He never has money,” Filipe pointed out.

“Not a peso,” Héctor said and Imelda watched him throw his arms around the twins shoulders and start to lead them back through the curtain. “Buut not to worry,  _Primo_  Héctor’s got this.”

Imelda folded her arms and shook her head. She didn’t believe a word of that. Not if he was still the Héctor that she knew. Rosita waited for Julio to catch up and then followed along beside her brother, excited. Victoria watched them pass her, then turned her gaze to Imelda, one hand to her collarbone, uncertain, looking for guidance. Imelda hardly knew what to do herself.

She brushed off her skirts and lifted her head, approaching Victoria and holding out her arm for her granddaughter to take. Victoria did, seeming to relax and opened her mouth but Imelda shook her head, putting a finger to her own. Not now. Whatever it was could wait. They pushed through the curtain onto the stage. The moment the curtain whispered shut behind them, the chords of  _Poco Loco_ began to ripple fast and energetic through the air. Imelda froze, eyes pinned to Héctor who was playing one of the stage guitars, fingers flying in blurs of white, eyes closed and grin wide, caught in the flurry and passion of the moment. Those riche tones falling around her and humming through her made a shiver go up her spine and she straightened.

The others were looking at her, she realized; frozen in place as well except for their eyes which bounced back between her and Héctor as if asking what they should do-- how to react to this. Imelda opened her mouth, heard a persistent tap and noticed Julio was tapping his foot. He seemed to notice too in an instant and crammed his hat on, ducking behind Rosita who looked anxious.

Héctor opened his eyes and his grin faded into something sheepish. He stopped playing, pressing his hand flat against the strings to kill the sound.

“Aheh heh. My mistake. Got caught in the moment.”

The eyes of her  _familia_ were on her again, waiting for a response. Héctor’s eyes were too as he slowly put the guitar back, but since he wasn’t paying attention, setting it so it slid out off the rack and onto the floor with a resonant crash. He winced. She was glad Victoria was on her arm or she would have gone forward to pick it up and didn’t trust herself to be that near him somehow. But what now? As the silence stretched, she could see Héctor retreating a bit, joy fading, shoulders hunched as he rubbed his arm.

“So ah…” he said, saving her. “Drinks? Or…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, as if asking if he should go ahead alone.

“Drinks,  _sí_ ,” Imelda said, grateful that he had interfered and also somewhat annoyed that he’d had to-- and then annoyed at herself. She took those feelings and pushed them to the side. She would worry about that later. “We’ll go to  _El Cerdo Feliz_.”

“Great idea,” he said with an awkward laugh. “With a name like that, who couldn’t have fun, eh?”

Silence again. They were waiting for her, she realized, to lead the way. She did, trying not to notice how Héctor’s eyes followed her, uncertain. The others began to follow her and Héctor at her side, walking in jerky motions that she tried not to worry about.

They left the stage in silence.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

The sign above  _El Cerdo Feliz_  was a skeletal pig resting happily in mud, and more the men’s haunt than hers, with Rosita tagging along on occasion. Still she knew the place well and they knew her. It was a middle class establishment, and the owner and her husband had a passion for shoes so were happy to give the Riveras quite an extensive tab. It was also dead silent. Imelda nodded to _Señor_ García who lifted a hand in greeting, and sat at one of their customary booths, her  _familia_ crowding in around her. With the six of them they filled it up. A problem which didn’t occur to her until Héctor was left standing awkwardly at the head of the table.

“I’ll just pull up a chair,” he said with that same sheepish grin, dragging one closer so the legs screeched across the tile. _Señor_ García glowered and Imelda tried very hard not to wince as Héctor sat, shoulders hunched and drummed his fingers against the table. Silence fell around them, thick and oppressive. Héctor cleared his throat.

“Lively place, isn’t it?”

“You should see it on poker night,” Julio said. And then helpfully. “Every Thursday.”

“Oh,  _sí_?” Héctor replied with the same wincing grin.

_“Papá,_ ” Victoria said, as if scolding him softly. Imelda patted her arm reassuringly, even if she herself wasn’t reassured in the slightest. Someone cleared their throat and Imelda looked up to see one of the barmaids, watching them anxiously as if she felt the awkward atmosphere.

“The usual, please,” she said to the barmaid who left gratefully. Silence again. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. Now that the excitement of the night was fading… thoughts began to drift across her mind. Thoughts like, what was she doing? And, she shouldn’t let the happiness and relief of the moment blind her to what she’d been doing for so long. What had worked for so long.

She glanced at Héctor and nearly jolted when she met his eyes on her. She looked away and cleared her own throat, folding her hands in her lap, fingertips resting against the pocket of her leather apron; a solid reminder of what she had made of herself.

“So…” Rosita said. “…You’re the musician…”

“Ah…  _sí_  that’d be me…” Héctor replied, waving.

“I pictured you differently,” she said.

“You did…?” Héctor said though Imelda had the feeling he honestly didn’t want to hear what Rosita might have come up with. Neither did she. She stared at Rosita, trying to mentally command her to change the topic of conversation, or at least not embarrass them.

“S _í!_ ” Rosita said. “I imaginedsomeone tall…, broad shouldered…”

“ _I’m_ tall and broad shouldered!” Héctor said.

“With a good voice certainly!” Rosita went on gustily as if she hadn’t heard. “Maybe mustachioed! You know!” She flapped her hand. “Someone a bit like Er…” She stopped, gave a sheepish grin, drew her hand back. “…Er… no one important.”

Imelda sighed, trying not to think of what else the woman might have imagined.

“Oh, nice,” Héctor said, folding his arms. “He’s not even that good looking, you know. Even alive. You can’t even call that chin crater of his attractive. It looked more like a pit.”

It would be easier to not imagine it if Héctor would stop talking about it. Still, she supposed, it was his due. She would let him go on and it would be easier once the drinks arrived.

“Anyway, good looks are overrated. What you really want in this world is charm.” He leaned his elbow on the table and wiggled his eyebrows at Rosita who giggled. Imelda shot him a look and he leaned back, looking chastened. Clearing his throat he fanned himself with his hat.

“Those drinks are taking a while, hey?”

“How did you two meet?” Rosita asked. “I bet it was romantic.”

 Héctor stopped mid fan, staring at Imelda.

“Uh…”

She held up a hand.

“No. We are not going to talk about that,” she said sternly. There was nothing in her that wanted to revisit the past. “We’re living in the present and that’s where we should focus.” Because look back too much and you started to wonder… That was why she didn’t…. Why she never allowed herself to look back, and never would.

“Ooh,  _sí_ ,” Rosita said, leaning forward. “Your voice is beautiful,  _Mamá_ Imelda!”

Well perhaps the present was a bit of a minefield as well, Imelda thought, remembering the terror and the joy of it. From the corner of her eye she saw Héctor’s expression change to something warm, a small smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. She twisted her fingers together under the table and lifted her chin.

“Does that mean music is okay now?” Rosita asked. Multiple gasps filled the air. Even the barmaid gasped, nearly dropping the tray and saving it just in time.  _Ay,_ why did she have to ask that?  _Why?_  She wanted to say no, of course not. How could it be? How could it ever be? Even if Héctor had had good intentions-- after all was said and done. Even if she’d  _loved_ it being up there on the stage, watching him play for her just like old times, smiling encouragingly, looking handsome and wonderful.

But should a moment’s joy be worth more than everything she’d worked so hard for?

“We’ve gotten along this far without it, _Tiá_ Rosita,” Victoria said, folding her arms. “I don’t think the rule should change.”

“I don’t see why not,” Rosita said with a frown. “Since we have a _m_ _úsico_ back in the family.”

The _m_ _úsico_ who snatched the mug of beer as soon it was set down and began to chug it, looking around nervously, like he was getting prepared to bolt at any moment. He would bolt too, she thought bitterly, then pushed that thought to the side. Now wasn’t the time. Anyway, there were other things to consider. Miguel would be joining them eventually and she knew he wouldn’t stop singing. He’d take after Héctor, without a doubt. But would the rest of them?

“It has been a while,  _Mamá,_ ” Filipe said, spreading his hands.

“I think we should keep going as we are,” Oscar replied, hands gripping his mug of beer and looking into it, then sitting up straighter and looking determined. Another gasp all around. The twins rarely disagreed, at least in public.

“Well what do you think, Julio?” Rosita asked her brother. Julio shrugged, looking miserable and awkward as he turned his hat round and round by the brim. She nudged him with her elbow. “Come on! Speak up!”

“I don’t have an opinion,” he said, jamming his hat on his head and hiding under it.

“Oh, you coward!” she said, with a sigh. Then caught Imelda’s look and flapped a hand, squishing her own hat on her head. “I- I mean we don’t need music. Who needs music?”

“Exactly,” Victoria said.

“But, oh, it was beautiful…” Rosita continued.

“Let it go,” said Oscar. She huffed at him, her hands on her hips. The bickering continued and Imelda watched as her small  _familia_ started to come apart stitch by stitch. There was a only a little damage now, a thread here, a thread there but if it went on, nothing would be able to keep the shoe together. This is what music did to them. As much as she loved it. Adored it. Missed it. This always came from it. It had killed Héctor, too, this mad passion. And nearly killed Miguel because of his own stubborn need to have it his way or no way.

Though he had given it up for the sake of his family. For the sake of Héctor. She looked over, half expecting to see him gone. Instead he was staring into his empty glass, frowning, hair falling over his eyes.

“I think,” he said, quietly, and yet somehow drawing everyone’s attention to him. He set the mug on the table before looking up at them, his eyes glassy and sad. She hated that look. More than anything. “I think that music isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth this…” He gestured. “What’s a song? A chord? A guitar? You guys got each other!”

“And you! The _m_ _úsico_ ,” Rosita said, as if making a point. Then startled and flicked a glance to Imelda. “R…right?”

Everyone’s eyes were on Imelda once again. This time it was different, somehow even more important than the music. Everyone seemed tense, waiting on baited breath. Would Héctor be joining them? What did that mean if he did? She couldn’t imagine now having him underfoot, seeing him every day, remembering every day the million reasons why she’d made her life this way-- the million sacrifices she had to make.

What were they all worth in the end? Could she so easily let them go? Take that risk?

That and music… big decisions which she could not and would not make in a public bar at not even seven in the morning. She sighed and opened her mouth.

“Ah, you don’t want me around,” said Héctor before she could even get a word out. “I’m just a no account  _flojo_. Couldn’t make a shoe to save my life.”

Imelda glowered at him. She was  _trying_  to say something.  _Trying_ to make a decision.

“Héctor…”

“So, thanks for the beer, but, you know…” He gave a huge fake yawn.

“Héctor,” she tried again as he got up. He had better not. He had really better not.

“I’m beat. I’ll see you guys later, eh?” he said. He was. Just leaving. Just like that.

“Héctor!” she snapped and he blinked at her. She clenched one hand into a fist under the table in an effort to keep her voice calm. “Wait for me by the door,  _por favor.”_

_“_ But I was--” he started.

“Just wait for me,” she said.

“Look maybe it’s better for--”

“Héctor…”

“-- me to just--”

“I am  _asking_  for you to wait for me,” she snapped, the beer mugs rattling as she slammed her fist against the table. “Can’t you try to follow one simple direction without ruining everything? For once?”

He flinched as if she’d hit him, and too late she realized what she’d said. Well, she couldn’t take it back. He put on his straw hat slowly, as if he was being forgotten all over again, looking away from her.

“ _Sí_ , Imelda. I’ll wait.”

She watched him limp toward the door, feeling an aggravating sympathy for that poor broken man. He always managed to do that. When he was sad, he was sadder than everyone in the room. When happy, happier. His emotions were a beacon and made it impossible to keep her own thoughts straight. It made her want to strangle him sometimes.

The table was silent. The bar was silent. She felt everyone was watching Héctor’s sad struggle toward the door before looking at her. She was tired of being looked at. Tired of being judged. Tired of having to make every decision. Just  _tired._  M _adre mio,_ this day needed to  _end._ She wanted to go back home and go over the accounts, or catch up on the backlog the holiday created, or even just read in the relative quiet of the hacienda. But she faced her problems head on always, quiet and sad and broken though they were.

“Go ahead of me,” she said, standing and brushing off her skirt. “I’ll come home on Pepita.”

“Yes, Mamá,” came the soft ragged chorus. She started for the door, something inside her lurching as she saw no sign of Héctor. If he’d left…. If he’d just…She lifted her chin, bracing herself, anchoring herself to the thought of her  _familia_  not a few steps behind her, and pushed open the door to the sun giving everything a wan washed out look as it rose.

Héctor was leaning against the wall, one foot braced against it, hands in his pockets, looking down. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to have anything to do with him or the complications he had brought into her afterlife. Yet, there they were and they had to be dealt with. He met her gaze and hitched one shoulder in a shrug and gave her a little half smile.

“ _Lo siento_ , Imelda…”

“You’re always  _lo siento_ ,” she said, starting to walk, hoping he would come with her, glad when he pushed off the wall and did; hands in his pockets.

“I have a lot to be  _lo siento_ for…”

“You do.” He said nothing to that, but she almost wished he would. She almost wanted a fight. Preferred a fight. But there had been too much fighting and now it was time for something else. What, she didn’t know. As they walked, she couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of her eye. He looked tired for someone just remembered, worn down still, falling apart, clothes torn and no shoes.

Sometimes she wondered if he was still the same Héctor that she’d married. She’d almost convinced herself once or twice that she’d made a mistake. That there were two Hectors and the one that had left her was still alive in the world somewhere, while this one was a poor shadow. Héctor in life had been brash and bold, unrepentant and charming. He could weasel his way into and out of anything. He could also stand toe to toe with her, unflinching in the heat of battle or… other things. And oh, when he’d played for her, his eyes just for her, wearing a soft smile-- she had lost all sense of time and place. It had only been them in that room, wrapped up in music which seemed to flow endlessly.

But that had been a fantasy, she told herself firmly. And all fantasies had to come to an end. She could see the proof of it right beside her. So much for seeing the world. So much for a lot of things. She found herself thinking of what might have been and ruthlessly tore those thoughts away from herself, flinging them mentally into the road like so much refuse. Here and now was all that mattered-- and here and now he was a ragged man when he didn’t have to be.

“ _Ay_ what troubles you bring me,” she said, not really thinking and not really meaning it. He smiled ruefully.

“Trouble is my middle name…” It was a joke and a weak one at that so she chose to ignore it. Instead she glanced around and spotted a small stone bench in a little park, shaded by the buildings above and some overhanging fake trees.

“Here,” she said. “Sit.” He sat and she beside him.

“Give me your  _chaqueta._ ” She held out her hand, then gestured insistently as he stared at her. Finally he grinned, shrugging out of one torn sleeve.

“Anything to get me naked, eh?”

She shoved his arm and fought to keep from smiling.

“I don’t care for bony men,” she said as straight faced as she could, digging a needle and thread from her apron pocket. The habit was more out of being a mother than a shoemaker. You never knew when something needed darning.

“No?” Héctor said, grinning wider. “That’s not what you said--” She jabbed the needle in his direction warningly and he held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

If she was amused by this it was only because it had been a long time since she’d had any banter of this kind. It had been a long time since she’d handled any men’s clothes, too, she thought, spreading the  _chaqueta_  on her lap and getting to work. It seemed big on her lap, too big, draping down carelessly over her knees. She knew from experience how the fabric would feel against her fingers, soft and worn. She also knew, that despite the difference between Héctor then and now, that if she could smell as well as she used to, she’d be in a far more dangerous place. As a boy he’d been awful, as most boys were, but when suddenly he’d become a man-- She shook her head of those thoughts quickly before they could take root.

“Imelda,” Héctor murmured and she hated that warm tenor as it was completely unfair to anyone. “You don’t have to change your music rule just because of me.” He looked at his hands, linked at the fingers, on his lap. “Last night aside, I haven’t played music since…” He winced, then shrugged. “In a very long time.”

“It’s not about you,” she said. Though it was and it wasn’t. “It’s about Miguel.”

“Oh, I see.”

She wondered, though, when he had stopped playing. He certainly had still been when she’d first seen him again. She frowned when thinking about it. She hadn’t been in the Land of the Dead for very long at all, maybe a couple of weeks. It had been an odd time, a lonely time. She had thrown so much work into preparing for her _familia_ she’d run herself near to exhaustion, which she hadn’t thought would be possible if you were dead.

So when she heard the familiar tunes of  _La Cigarra_  coming from a nearby plaza, she’d gravitated toward it almost without thinking. It had felt like an oasis in the desert, that beautiful music floating through the air. Oh, she had known then she was going against her principles. That if her  _familia_ saw her they would be shocked, and maybe even a little resentful. But they hadn’t been there and she’d been so lonely and she’d thought, what harm could come from just coming nearer?

The harm, of course, had been Héctor, sitting there singing, playing a ramshackle guitar, people surrounding him. She hadn’t really recognized him at first. Or, she had and she hadn’t. Her heart hoped while her mind dismissed. He’d been rough around the edges even then and hadn’t looked like the polished _m_ _úsico_ that had left her door. But then he’d looked up as the song came to a close, and his face lit up and she knew; even before he joyfully called her name.

If she’d left before then maybe none of this would have happened. If she hadn’t followed it at all. If he hadn’t spoken. If he hadn’t recognized her in an instant and come toward her through the crowd as if she was the only one that existed. She remembered the flash of happiness, the thrill of fear, and then as he stepped in arms length, a fury gripped her like none had ever before. She’d slapped him, hard, open palmed, and was surprised none of her fingers had splintered though it had nearly knocked his skull off. And she’d screamed at him, so loud probably the Land of the Living had heard. How dare he greet her like that after he’d abandoned her so carelessly. How dare he sit in the Land of the Dead and play like it had meant nothing to him. How dare he even say her name. She had never in her life felt the urge to kill someone as strongly as she had that day.

Of course that was before she’d known the truth. That he’d tried to come back to her. For so long she’d thought he’d just forgotten them. Left her standing day after day with Coco asking her when more letters from Papá would come. Then crying about it. Then quiet about it as she realized there would be no more letters. That Papá hadn’t cared enough to even put pen to paper to tell them how he was.

She’d imagined him in a million different scenarios-- That he’d found his way on some stage or another, far away from them. That he was working with Ernesto behind the scenes and hadn’t bothered to inform them. After all Ernesto had had his guitar, that  _she_  had given him of all things!, and his songs and Héctor would have never let that just pass by. Even sometimes she imagined he’d found another  _familia._  A better one or one who would let him go wherever he liked without shouting him down. She had never, not once, imagined he might have been murdered. Let alone by Ernesto. She hadn’t even imagined him dead. Héctor being dead had always been an impossibility. It was still difficult to wrap her head around.

“He’s a good kid, though,” Héctor said, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Hmm?” she said, realizing that she’d finished darning and had just been sitting there, the  _chaqueta_ in her hands. She hastily handed it back.

“Miguelito. He’s a good kid. And a great talent. I don’t know how he managed to learn  _Poco Loco_ so well, but he’d have been some stiff competition.”

“Well, some of it does come from his  _familia,_ you know,” Imelda said, and then trying to tease added: “And you, too.”

He chuckled softly, pulling the  _chaqueta_ back on. “Thanks, Imelda.”

Then he watched her, hands on his knees, and she watched him. It was a bad idea and she knew it. It was easy to dismiss him when all she saw were bones. He wasn’t the Héctor she remembered. No nose, no ears, no thick lashes or warm skin. No heartbeat. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw him. When she looked into his eyes, she wanted to drown. Such a trouble maker this one was. He shifted closer, leaning in, she found herself listing to meet him--

But then she leaned back, shaking herself out of it. No. No no. She wasn’t ready for this and didn’t think she ever would be. She would not start down that road again. Not here. Not now. She stood and held out her hand, palm flat, when he started to stand too. He slowly sat back on the bench.

“Here’s how it will go,” she said, shifting to kneel on the ground in front of him, taking his foot into her lap. “First, you need shoes.”

“Imelda, you don’t--”

“You need shoes,” she told him sternly, giving him a glare. “They are our pride and joy and do you want Coco to come in seeing you looking like a disaster? No.”

“No…” he agreed, sitting back. “Well then… I… I’ll pay you…”

She didn’t believe he ever would nor could so let that pass by.

“Second,” she let out a breath, shifting to dig her ruler from her apron pocket. “You’re welcome to the hacienda at any time.”

“R-really?” he seemed startled. She nodded. It was going to be nerve wracking for her but it was important.

“I want you to get to know the  _familia_  and them to know you. More importantly for them to tell you about Coco. I want her to know without a shadow of a doubt that her Papá cares for her and understands her.”

He nodded, which she could see out of the corner of her eye because she was measuring his foot and didn’t dare look up to see his full expression.

“Third….” She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to let it back into her life. And yet here it was. And yet here it would be. And Coco had lived a long time in silence. “… I won’t make you, but I’ll ask you…” Her voice was rough and she took a breath to steady her nerves. “…for her sake…”

“Don’t worry,” Héctor said, gently. “I don’t plan to--”

“ _Madre mio_ , let me finish!” she snapped, looking up at him, feeling her eyes smart though there would never be anything to show for it. She rested a hand on his shin, trying to draw his attention to only her. He looked afraid though she couldn’t understand why. “Play for her, Héctor.  Sing to her. Remind her…” Another breath. “Remind her of music…”

He dropped his foot from her lap and held out his hand.

“You, too…”

She watched his hand. She wanted to. She wanted to take it and curl next to him with her head on his shoulder. She wanted to give in and sing with him and experience that thrill again and again. But she did not trust the ground to stay under her feet. She stood instead, straightening her apron, looking down at him.

“Don’t mistake me, Héctor, I still haven’t forgiven you.” Only she had without even knowing it. “But Coco deserves to be happy and for my  _hija_ there is little I wouldn’t do.”

“Yeah…” he said, looking downcast. “Okay…”

How infuriating. Here she was giving him all this freedom and he was still a shambles of a man. He seemed to sense her anger because he looked up and gave her a weak grin.

“I’ll definitely do my best for her, Imelda,” he said, giving her a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, grateful to him even then because it allowed her to walk away with back straight and head high. She thought to go back to the bar, then changed her mind and decided the hacienda instead. She was about to whistle for Pepita when she saw her precious  _alebrije_ sunbathing on the flat top of a nearby roof. Pepita spotted her in a moment and jumped down to meet her, bumping her huge head against Imelda’s and purring softly.

“Ah,  _mi alma_ , did I do the right thing?”

Pepita only purred and nudged her with her nose. Imelda knew the answer in any case--which was wait and see. And hope. There was a happy bark and Imelda watched as Miguel’s strange  _alebrije_ dog came fluttering from the roof to land face first in the street. The dog shook itself off and scratched behind an ear then went trotting after Héctor, nails clicking on stone.  Imelda shook her head. What a creature. She turned to Pepita and the giant cat lowered her head so Imelda could clamber onto her wide neck.

“Let’s go home,” she said, patting the  _alebrije_  behind the ear. Pepita growled a response and launched herself into the air with a powerful leap. She caught sight of Héctor walking through the alleys for a brief moment and felt a bitter sweet surge of emotion that she quickly pushed down. There was so much to do and so much to recover from and prepare for. Who had time to feel anything?

 


	2. Historia de Imelda: La Llorona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story of the past. Growing up is not always easy, especially for someone with nothing

                Papá is dead. That much she knows. She’s seen dead before a long time ago when the twins were born and Mamá wasn’t strong enough. She had gone to sleep and not woken up and Papá said that was dead. Imelda had wanted them to wait, to see if she would open her eyes, but Papá was stern, even though she cried. Soon some señoras from the village had come to put a cloth over her face and cry for her before taking her away to the church yard.

                Only no one had come for Papá. Imelda had waited for two days but no one had showed up to put a cloth over his face and cry and take him away. It’s very worrying because when they had went to the church yard to visit Mamá, Papá had pointed to a space right beside the ground she was under and said he would be there one day. Imelda knew that, unlike her, Papá and Mamá didn’t like to sleep alone.

                “I should go to the village,” she tells herself, and feels a little bit better. She scrubs at her eyes and blows her nose into a handkerchief and gets up from where she has been sitting in the doorway. She starts for the open door, with the warm sunlight streaming in, then remembers that the village is far away. Far enough so that she will get hungry. She gathers the fruit and vegetables they have, setting them thoughtfully on the floor and crouching to examine them. She won’t be able to carry them all in her hands.

                She looks up and frowns, thinking, her eyes drawn to Mamá’s soft red shawl which is draped over the back of the chair Papá had made for her. Imelda remembers sitting on Mamá’s lap in that chair, getting her hair brushed or story told or sometimes just lying against her, arms and shawl wrapped around her. After Mamá had been dead, though, Papá didn’t want her to sit there or touch it. But she’s seen Mamá before carry all sorts of things in that shawl tied to her back. Imelda can probably carry things too. And maybe, she thinks with a sudden happiness, if she takes it, Papá might be mad enough to not be dead anymore.

                She touches it and waits.

                Pulls it from the chair and waits.

                Takes it to pat Papá’s arm. He does not wake.

                She wipes her eyes with her fist and clumsily ties the shawl across her shoulders. It takes a few tries before she can get the fruit and vegetables from falling out. After another moment’s thinking, she takes her doll Lila and sets her on top, smooshed between a squash and a few ears of maize. Then she goes outside where the twins are playing with their wooden horses. Her shadow falls over them and they look up and smile.

                “Mamá Imelda!” they say. She frowns. She doesn’t know if she likes being called that or not. It was okay when she would help Papá with them or sing or rock them to sleep--but after he’d gotten sick, she’d found it was hard work being a Mamá.

                “Where are you going?” Filipe asks.

                “Papá is dead,” she says. “I’m going to go to the village to find someone to cry for him.”

                “Can we come?” asks Oscar. She doesn’t want them to come. They will make her go slow and she wants to go fast. But if she leaves them alone they might see Papá being dead and get scared. They don’t understand about that yet. She holds out her hands and they take them. The sky is blue and the sun is hot.

                “ _Vayamos_ ,” she says, and they begin.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

                Imelda stumbles. She feels like she is melting. Her bare feet bleed on the dry scratchy grass and hunger licks at her stomach. The fruit was okay but the vegetables were too hard to eat and made their bellies hurt. Thirst dries her throat, but she doesn’t know how to find the river.Two days have passed and she hasn’t found the village, and hasn’t found home. She has sat and cried but no one came to help her. She doesn’t understand why that is, but she thinks it is because Papá is dead. She stumbles again and her legs shake. The twins are heavy on her back and she can’t walk straight with them they. But they will cry if she asks them to walk or sit there and watch with sad eyes, because they are little and so tired. She feels little and so tired, too. She wants to lie down and sleep. She comes to a stop at the bottom of a hill. The grass looks soft. The sky is blue. If she sleeps maybe she can see Mamá again.

                A clump of grass just in front of her wriggles and she lets out a surprised squawk as something bounds out of it. It is a kitten with yellow eyes and black fur with a patch of white on chest and tail tip. She watches in wonder as the kitten grooms its face, then mews at her and walks away up the little hill, tail tip like the flame on a candle. Imelda follows, shifting the twins better on her back, wondering where the kitten is going and if there are more of them. When she tops the hill, there are no more kittens, but what she sees is even better. A building is at the bottom of the valley with a happy blue winking under some trees. There is a church yard, too. Has she found the village?

                “Oscar! Filipe!” she says, jarring them, wanting to tell them the good news and hoping they will walk. Oscar makes a small unhappy sound and Filipe no sound at all but she can feel his breath against her neck. “It’s ok.” She tells them and starts down the hill. She wants to run, but everything is so shaky and the world starts to go dark and fuzzy around the edges. She follows the kitten as best she can, from coarse grass to soft grass, to dirt. Yellow petals drift by on the wind, smelling sweet and glowing faintly. There is a sound, too. Something soft and beckoning. It’s so pretty she wants to find where it all is  coming from, but she pushes on instead.

                Imelda stops in front of a big brown door, not sure what to do. Her hands seem too tiny to make a sound on such a big thing. But there is a rope nearby, with a small bell above it-- and she sets the twins down she can reach up and pull with both hands. _Uno, dos, tres, quatre._ There is the grinding sound of wood and the door opens.

                “What’s this?” the woman in the black dress says, sounding surprised.

                “ _Por favor,_ ” Imelda says in the growing darkness. “Come cry for my Papá.”

                And she falls forward.

 o.o.o.o.o.o

                Imelda kneels in the garden, pulling weeds and putting them on the shawl to take to the compost pile later. The twins sit nearby, playing with their horses and Pícaro, the kitchen cat’s kitten, is chasing butterflies through the squashes. It is a strange place they’ve come to. Not a village after all, but the home of a strange _familia_. They call it a convent, and it is full of women who are all sisters and have one mother who they call _Madre_ or _la Superiora._ All the women dress the same, too. There are no Papás to speak of. 

                Still, she likes it here. The food is good and they have rush mats to sleep on and the _hermanas_ are kind. They even went and  took care of Papá. Imelda had wanted to see him right away, to see where he rested so she wouldn’t forget it. But they said it was a long journey for a _ni_ _ña_ to undertake, so maybe when she was older.

                Imelda huffs and flips a braid over her shoulder so she can dig out a stubborn weed, taking as much of the roots as she can. When older was she didn’t understand, but it was never tomorrow. If she could she would go by herself but outside the convent is just the hills and river and sky. 

                “Hey, Filipe!” Oscar calls: “My horse is faster than yours!”

                “No! Mine is faster than yours!” Filipe replies and Imelda watches as they start to run back and forth along the garden path, waving their wooden horses in the air. They are happy here and with her here and she can wait a little longer to go looking. Pícaro mews and crouches in front of one of the open windows, wiggling his hind end before taking a huge leap and landing on the windowsill. Imelda claps her hands and gets up, flicking off her skirt before hurrying to the windowsill herself. It is too tall for her to look inside, but she can lean underneath it and listen. After a moment, the _hermanas_ begin to sing all together. Their voices raise high and sweet into the air, intertwining like a circle of flowers. She doesn’t understand what they are singing,   but she’s memorized every word. Suddenly she decides that she wants to sing, too. She waits until they get to the best part, then takes a deep breath and joins in:

                “ _Aaaavee, Maariiiia._ _”_

                The voices inside falter and stop. Imelda frowns. She hadn’t wanted to stop singing! Why had they? She hears shuffling footsteps and finds _Hermana_ Gloria staring down at her, surprised.

                “Well, little _ni_ _ña_ ,” she says. “You can sing!”

                “ _Si_ ,” Imelda says, puzzled. Can’t everyone?

                “Would you like to come in and sing with us?”

                Imelda considers a moment.

                “No.” She wants to stay out here. Her brothers are here and Pícaro and there is weeding to be done. _Hermana_ Gloria doesn’t seem happy about that, but then shakes her head.

                “Very well, you may remain for now.”

                She moves away from the window. After a moment they start to sing again and, when Imelda joins in, they don’t stop.

o.o.o.o.o.o

                Something is happening inside, though Imelda doesn’t know what. She scrubs the floor just outside the nave, not even in the mood to hum. They’ve been in the convent for two years now, or maybe more. Her memory is a little bit fuzzy. The old adobe walls and stone floor have grown familiar and a lot of the plants in the garden are hers. She’s learning to cook and clean and mend socks. She can read now a little and do numbers even better than the twins, which  _la Superiora_ thinks is unseemly. It’s not their fault they don’t understand, she thinks, annoyed. They preferred to dive in books and read out loud to each other, even in Latin which none of them understood much of. They seem to be happy here.

                She sighs and sits back, then scowls as Pícaro jumps in from the outside and gets muddy prints over her clean floor. “Get out, _gato!_ ” she snaps, throwing the rag at him. Pícaro scampers away and out the window again, long tail high. He’s gotten big. Grown up. She follows him to the window to wipe his prints away, then leans her arms on the sill, pillowing her chin in them. Outside the sun dazzles off the tops of trees and in the freckling ripples of the river. The _hermanas_ call it the R _ío de Dios_. But everything seems to be the something of God around here. Imelda prefers to think of it with something without a name. Something that can’t be named. A wild and reckless little thing that doesn’t say where it’s been or where it’s going. She sighs, wondering what might be at the end of it.

                From the grounds below,  Pícaro miaows at her in a deep tom cat voice. It seems to be an apology and she sticks her tongue out at him.

                “Wipe your paws first, silly thing,” she says. He blinks slowly at her then heads toward the sparkling river at a jaunty gate. Imelda wants to go after him. She’s never been down to the river before. The _hermanas_ have a well right in the courtyard so there’s never been a need, but now she feels the urge to explore. She grabs the sill with both hands and begins to pull herself up when behind her she hears H _ermana_ Gloria say:

                “Imelda!”

                Imelda drops and turns.

                “ _Si_ , _Hermana_ Gloria?”

                “Where do you think you’re going?” the woman asks, her age spotted hands on her hips.

                “Outside.”

                “Then use the door like a proper young lady,” _Hermana_ Gloria says. Then drops her hands and her expression melts into a fond smile. Imelda turns her head to say that she’d heard, but wasn’t agreeing. This way, _Hermana_ Gloria can see as a ‘yes’, so it’s not quite a lie if she doesn’t mean it. To her surprise, the woman holds out her hand. “Come _ni_ _ña_ , _Madre_ _Superiora_ wishes to see you.”

                Imelda doesn’t want to see her, but she knows she doesn’t have a choice. With a sigh she takes _Hermana_ Gloria’s hand and they move down the long hallway together. At least she’s not in trouble, yet. She usually knows when she is. But if she isn’t in trouble, what could _la Superiora_ want? The closer they get, the more Imelda is tempted to dive out one of the windows and go running to the river and along it in the glorious sunshine.

                She doesn’t, though and is ushered into the small cramped office that feels too stuffy to breathe. As _Hermana_ Gloria lowers herself into one of the hard wooden chairs, Imelda stands in front of the desk as expected, hands behind her back.  _La Superiora_ looks up at her, light glinting off her spectacles as she peers at Imelda down her thin nose.

                “So,” she says in her reedy voice. “You are eight years old now, if I were to guess.”

                “ _Si_ ,” Imelda says. It feels right, though she’s forgotten when her birthday is supposed to be.

                “And soon you will be a young woman.”

                “ _Si._ ” Though she isn’t looking forward to it. The _Hermanas_ have already talked about things that were to come. Not the least of which being pain and devotion and service and blood. She’s not interested in any of those things, though she can’t say what she _is_ interested in.

                “You have no _familia_ to speak of.”

                “No.” Not that she knows of anyway. No one had ever come looking. She doesn’t even know what direction she’d come from. Though she and the twins still pray for Mamá and Papá, on _Dias de Muertos_ , or All Souls Day, as they call it here; even if she can’t even remember their faces anymore-- and the twins not at all.

                “And of course you are far too young to have any connections or be interested romantically.”

                Imelda makes a face at the word. She knew about that at least. Some of the younger _Hermanas_ talked about it a lot and some of them were here because of one romance or another. Still they talked about this boy or that one from the village or back home and how handsome he was or how ugly. Imelda doesn’t get it, nor does she want to. Boys are boys and needy and whiny. She loves her brothers, but she doesn’t know why anyone would want to spend time with a boy that wasn’t already _familia._

                “Then I don’t see any reason you can’t come and join our order in time.”

                “No,” Imelda says, surprising herself at the suddenness of her own decision. She may not know what she wants, but she knows what she doesn’t.  _La Superiora_ looks up, first startled than annoyed.

                “It is a good life here,” she said, her voice seeming to grow even reedier with anger. “And more of one than you would get out there with no _familia_ and no prospects.”

                “I have _familia,_ _”_ Imelda says, folding her arms. She may not be able to rely on Oscar and Filipe for anything, but they are still young and it’s up to her to take care of them.

                “Tcha,”  _La Superiora_ makes a dismissive wave of her hand. “Uncross those arms and don’t be impertinent.”

                Imelda keeps her arms folded until the sour old woman glares at her and then folds her hands behind her back She wants to be impertinent. She wants to knock the dusty old books off the table and stick out her tongue and jump out the window.

                “Your brothers will be young men one day and want their own lives separate from yours,” _La Superiora_ said with a sniff. “They won’t want you hanging around and interfering with their wives and lives. That is the way of men and woman.” She gave Imelda a strange waiting look. “Now do you change your mind?”

                “No.” Because it isn’t true. They won’t leave her. She knows them better than that. _La Superiora_ scowls.

                “Listen, Imelida,” says _Hermana_ Gloria, heaving herself up from the chair to face her. “We are considering this because your voice, while young still, is a gift. Don’t you want to sing for God?”

                “No,” Imelda says, and knows immediately that’s the wrong answer. _La Superiora_ seems to swell like a toad in the rain, gripping her desk as she rises, her glasses flashing like the light off knives.

                “You-- You impertinent--”

                “I think what Imelida means is that she doesn’t want to sing for God here with us,” _Hermana_ Gloria says, giving Imelda a frantic look. Imelda nods quickly. She thinks that’s what she meant. But she also doesn’t want the old woman mad at her just in case she takes it out on Oscar and Filipe again. Last time they were very sad when banned from the small library.

                “Still--” _La Superiora_ growls. _Hermana_ Gloria shushes and eases the old woman into sitting back down.

                “And, of course, she’s a child still, no? Give her time to come to the correct decision.”

                “Well,” the old woman gruffs. “I suppose.” But then she jabs a crooked finger in Imelda’s direction. “But you will have to pay a penance for every time you said no to me today! And twice again for backtalking.”

                “Yes, _Madre,_ ” Imelda says, bowing her head and then leaving the room quickly before the old woman can see her scowl. When she gets back to her bucket she smacks the bristle brush into it, then scrubs the floor as hard as she can, her eyes smarting. It isn’t  fair! Why should she be punished for not doing what the old woman wanted? Couldn’t she not want what she didn’t want? And why did _La Superiora_ say her brothers would leave her? They wouldn’t leave her! All they had was each other.

                Getting up, Imelda moves through the convent in a furious stride before throwing open the door to the small library, startling a novice. Oscar and Filipe are nowhere to be found. They aren’t in their room either, nor in the front courtyard where they usually played. Frantic she bursts outside, their names welling in her throat. What if they’d left? What if they’d ran away? What would she do then?

                “Filipe?!” she calls. “Oscar?!”

                “Miaow!”

                Whipping around she spots Pícaro who is just around the corner, standing  beside her brothers who are sitting in the shade of the wall.She runs to them and wraps her arms around them both, hugging tightly, feeling them solid under her arms.

                “Mamá Imelda?” Oscar says, patting her back.

                “Is something wrong?” Filipe adds. “Are you sad?”

               “Did something scary happen?”

               “No,” Imelda says when she can speak without her voice trembling. “Just missing _mi_ _familia._ ” She sits back finally and sniffs, holding their hands in hers, watching their dark eyes and concerned faces. “We’ll always be together, won’t we?”

               “Of course!” Filipe says.

               “Always.” Oscar nods. She smiles. Who cares what a crabby old woman has to say when she has her dear brothers?

o.o.o.o.o.o

               The weather is changing, and so is she. The hot wet summer has cooled, the air is dry. People have started to come by the convent. They always get some now and again. A Padre will come to do masses, people from villages will come begging alms or giving donations… but now there seems to be more. On the move. Going somewhere mysterious.

               There are also whispers. Talk of fighting and revolution and blood and fire. An old crone from Loma Verde ,a small village few miles south west, though Imelda doesn’t know exactly where, was talking about the marigold bridge being clogged with the dead. _La Superiora_ had shooed her off, muttering ‘pagan nonsense’ before Imelda could find out more.

               It is terrifying.

               It is exciting.

               A few days ago she’d seen some revolutionaries crossing the hilltop in the early morning light.  They were moving across the hilltop with their sombreros and rifles and sashes of bullets. A few had even been riding horses and Imelda couldn’t help but watch them sit on those great animals, confident and assured, holding the reins one handed. She’d woken up the twins so they could see them too and it had caught Filipe’s mind like wildfire.

               He had started talking joining up with them, even just to clean their rifles. She understands his excitement and she almost wants to do the same. There had been whispers through the convent that women were there, too, and not just following behind and taking care of the men, some were even fighting! She doesn’t know if she can fight, but even as she sweeps the front courtyard, she can’ t help but lift the broom and aim it like a rifle, imagining the sound of a shot echoing across the valley.

               There is a creak behind her and she fumbles the broom, dropping it with a clatter. But it is only Pícaro stepping through the half open door. She sighs, trying to tame her heartbeat, and bends to scratch the cat’s ears. _La Superiora_ doesn’t care for revolutionaries or anyone talking about them. More than one novice has been reduced to tears and even _Hermana_ Gloria has had to do penance for gossiping. But her brothers are smart, because of course they are, and only play soldiers out of sight in the bushes behind the convent.

               She wonders a little if this is it. If following along behind these revolutionaries would be the thing that would be the thing that would fulfill-- this.

               She is restless.

               She is _changing_.

               Her body is shifting, slowly, each day it seems a new discovery. She can feel everything. Everything tastes new, smells new, sounds new and inside something is bubbling, like water set to boil but having nowhere to go. She continues sweeping with an odd sort of joyous annoyance. A part of her wants to just do it. To just go. To pack up some food from the garden and maybe a book or two into the shawl and grab the twins’ hands and go the next time the revolutionaries cross the hill line. She would argue their case for staying. They were young but determined and ready to learn. And being away from the convent would be magical.

               But… she knows they will not… Because even if Oscar agrees with Filipe in just about everything, both of them can tell his heart isn’t in this. He goes a few shades paler when it’s brought up, even teasingly and doesn’t enjoy pretending to shoot let alone being shot. They can’t abandon him here of course and she has no desire to make him miserable being there, no matter how exciting she might find it. So…at the convent they will remain.

               She sighs, props the broom by the wall, hugs the shawl around her and watches the a flight of birds wheel in the setting sun. A cool breeze brushes her forehead.  Pícaro watches beside her, tail neatly wrapped around his paws, tail tip twitching. He yawns, showing sharp teeth and she smiles. Good old boy. His ear twitches and the next moment she hears a hoarse whisper nearby.

               “ _Imelda_!”

                Filipe is peering at her from the gate. He looks at the convent then frantically makes a come here gesture. Immediately ice goes through her veins. Is something wrong with Oscar? Has he fallen somewhere? Hurt himself. She hurries to the gate, nearly tripping over herself in her haste, then finds him grinning as she gets closer and almost wants to knock him on the head. What is he whispering to her for if it’s not something dangerous?

               “What is it?” she says, annoyed.

               “Shhh. Shh.” He grins. “Come on, I want to show you.”

               “Show me what?” she says, pitching her voice lower but just a little. “And where is-- Oh, there you are.”

               Oscar wiggles his fingers at her from where he’s leaning against the wall. He looks pale, one arm over his stomach.

               “Are you sick?” She checks his forehead against hers. He is not hot but clammy. Nerves.

               “He is just Oscar,” Filipe says, though not unkindly. “Come on.” He grabs her arm.

               “Alright, alright, don’t pull.” She takes her arm back, adjusts the shawl on her shoulders and follows, head held high. Pícaro trots along at her ankles, tail tip quirked in a question mark. They moved around the outside of the convent, toward the river, and it doesn’t take long until she sees what has Filipe so excited.

               The revolutionaries have returned and they are making camp on the other side of the river. She can smell the smoke now. See them setting up tents. Most are men that she can see, talking in twos or threes, rifles between their feet. But there are women further back, building the fires or passing in and out of tents.

               “ _Fantastico_ ,” Filipe breathes. “Should we get closer? Can we, Imelda?”

               She wants to say yes. She wants to cross the river and meet those fantastic people. To taste their food. She hears the faint thrum of a guitar and sucks in a breath. She’s always found that the most beautiful sound in the world, even if the _harmanas_ only play it to songs they have sung a thousand times. Can they get closer? She doesn’t know. She casts a worried look at Oscar who swallows and then gives a jerky little nod. He’s game if they are… almost.

               And yet…

               She leads them to the back of the convent and the only thing separating them from the revolutionaries is a little scrub bush and the river itself. She wonders if she can wave her shawl and flag them down, maybe make them come to her, but something stops her. Is it fear? Is it excitement? She can’t tell. It’s dizzying.

               “ _Vayamos_ ,” she says in a strangely rough voice.

               “Where do you think you’re going?” snaps _La Superiora_ , her reedy voice nearly a shriek. Imelda winces and shuts her eyes tight so she won’t glare at the old woman. Her cheeks singe. What if the revolutionaries had heard them treated like children?

               “Just to the river,” Oscar says in a small voice because Filipe is usually too terrified of _La Superiora_ to speak.

               “Never go down to the river at night!” _La Superiora_ growls. “Do you want la Llorona to get you?”

               “L…La Llaronoa?” Oscar asks, twisting his hands together.

               “An demon that drags foolish children into the river and drowns them.”

               Oscar grows pale and Filipe paler and Imelda whirls to face the old woman who is glowering at them from out a window.

               “How dare you scare them like that!” she snaps. “That’s not true and you know it! You’re just a sour faced old woman who doesn’t like to see anyone having fun!”

               “Oh you think you know so much, impudent _ni_ _ña_?” says _La Superiora._ “Where are you really going? And don’t lie!”

               Imelda lifts her chin, legs braced against the ground. She hadn’t been intending to lie.

               “We’re going to meet the revolutionaries.”

               “No, Imelda!” Filipe squeaks and Oscar buries his head in his hands.

               “Not tonight, you aren’t,” _La Superiora_ says. “Oscar! Filipe! Go clean your room, you left it a mess. And you, snotty little miss, are meeting me in my office.”

               Imelda grinds her teeth. What if she doesn’t want to? What if she just takes her brothers by the hands and runs to the camp come hell to pay? Even if they couldn’t clean guns they could cook and the boys could fetch firewood. She doesn’t need this place. _La Superiora_ ’s scowl deepens.

               “Do you want to continue staying here?” the old woman says and Imelda is very tempted to say no! But Oscar tugs at her shawl. He does not want to go with the revolutionaries. She puts her hand over his.

               “Yes, _Madre_ ,” she says, bowing her head. The old woman nods as if this is what she knew Imelda would say and pulls herself back inside the window. Imelda sighs and takes the boys by the hand, leading them back into the convent. _La Superiora_ will yell at her. She knows that. She will definitely be punished. But that’s fine. She can stand up under anything. When they get inside, Oscar is crying.

               “I’m s-sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. She puts a hand on his head.

               “Don’t be, _chiquito_. You either.” She ruffles Filipe’s hair. “What can she do to me? I’m tougher than any old cow!”

               The twins laugh a little but Imelda doesn’t think they’re convinced as she makes her way to the office. It is strange and lonely in the halls by herself. She’s not sure where everyone is. She tells herself she is not nervous and almost she isn’t when she knocks on the office door.

               “Come,” says _La Superiora._ Imelda braces herself and then slips into the room. Boldly she sits in the chair rather than standing at the desk, daring _La Superiora_ to say anything. The old woman snorts, then folds her crooked fingers together and stares at Imelda for a long moment. Imelda stares back, refusing to be afraid.

               “Brave thing you are,” says _La Superiora._ She leans back, folding her hands over her stomach. “In a way, I suppose I need to apologize.”

               Imelda blinks, taken aback. She hadn’t seen that coming. The old woman sighs and continues.

               “Back then, that I wanted you to sing for us, I committed the sin of pride. Perhaps avarice, too. I was desperate for anything since…well never mind.  At least, I thought, we could show you off to others. A young novice with a pretty voice. Quite the story to tell. I thought perhaps to get more donations,  for the convent, or novices with wealthy backgrounds, or at least get us noticed by those _idiotas_ in Santa Cecilia.” She scowls and crosses herself. Then sighs once more. “I never should have tried to force you and I am sorry, _sobrina._ ”

               Imelda isn’t sure what to do with this. Not the apology nor the way she’d said ‘niece’ so affectionately. Her eyes burn and she’s not entirely sure why, so she can just nod and fidget her fingers in her lap. 

               “But I did want you here. To join us. I did mean that. It is a hard world out there for a young girl without protection from her _familia_.”

               “I can survive it,” Imelda murmurs, though she’s not sure why it would be hard.

               “I’m sure you can,” _La Superiora_ says. “But we don’t all have to carry that burden. But I can see you are going out into the world anyway, whatever may befall you.” She leans forward again, lighting a candle against the growing night and watching Imelda over steepeled fingers. “So let me give you some advice… Beware of revolutionaries. Of soldiers in general but revolutionaries in particular. Especially if you have no idea why they fight.”

               She doesn’t have any idea. It didn’t seem to matter.

               “They’re… interesting…” she murmurs, fiddling with the end of a braid.

               “So they are. And there are some good men in their ranks. But some bad men, too. And rough men. And beyond that, _sobrina_ _…_ ” _La Superiora_ shakes her head. “Your heart is young and tender and easily lead.”

               “It’s not!” She wasn’t easily lead. She made her own way. _La Superiora_ watches her in silence, then:

               “Do you know the story of la Llorona?”

               “The demon?” Imelda says flatly, folding her arms, not believing.

               “She didn’t start out that way, of course. It’s not unusual. The way of this world makes demons of many and saints of few.” The candle flickers in the darks of the old woman’s eyes and Imelda can’t help but watch. “A long time ago, there lived here a people known as the Azteca. They were a proud people, a passionate people, a cruel people who butchered without mercy anyone who crossed them. For time unknown they ruled this place, until the Conquistadors arrived from over the sea to put an end to their savagery.”

               Imelda nods. She had heard the story of the Conquistadors from _Hermana_ Gloria.

               “Though they were savage themselves,” _La Superiora_ says, sounding bitterly amused. “And destroyed much of what the church tried to correct with their own avarice and stubborn stubborn pride….” She shakes her head. “But at the time they were cleansing the nation of it’s bloody past. Many died on both sides but the Azteca suffered the most. For this reason, most of them were set against the Conquistadors-- except la Llorona.”

               The old woman waves her fingers through the candle flame, making it flicker.

               “She was an Azteca woman, beautiful, full of fierce pride. There were many Azteca men who wanted her for their bride, but she turned them all down. Until one day when she met a soldier for the Conquistadors. He wasn’t landed or wealthy, merely a foot soldier fighting in the war of his superiors.”

               Was he handsome? Imelda wonders, feeling uneasy. It seems beautiful and yet… Something rests uncertainly in the pit of her belly.

               “For la Llorona, it was love in an instant. She loved him so well and completely that she abandoned her own people to be at his side and bear his children. She even helped the Conquistadors in their bloody battles against those brutal people.”

               How cruel of her, Imelda thinks, shifting uncertainly. Even if the Azteca weren’t  great, there is still-- something wrong about that. Something she can’t place her finger on.

               “But for her, despite all that, she was happy. She married the man and children with him. And, for a while, she lived a peaceful life, surrounded by what she loved. And then, one day, as it always does, the world changed unexpectedly.” The old woman clenches her hand into a knotted fist. “The Conquistadors gave up and went home, taking her husband with her.”

               “How sad,” Imelda breathes, part of her heart going out to that poor woman. How must it feel to lose someone like that? _La Superiora_ nods.

               “He said he would send for her. Promised her. That she would be by his side and to just be patient. So she waited-- and waited, and finally one day she met an old _compadre_ of the soldier who had returned to serve God. He told her that the man who she had betrayed her own people for had no intention of coming home, and worse of all, that he had a wife and other children in his homeland.”

               Imelda feels as if she’s been slapped, the breath shocked right out of her even as her hands knot into fists.

               “That--! _That--! Idiota!_ ” It’s not the right word. She doesn’t have the right word. Who could have the right word for this?

               “La Llarona, was so distraught,” _La Superiora_ continues as if she hadn’t heard, but her eyes are pinning Imelda to the spot and she feels frozena nd faintly terrified. “That she dragged her children to the river, and in rage and despair, she drowned them.”

               “ _What?_ _”_ Imelda shot to her feet. How could-- How could she! How could she do that? No matter what happened! They were her _children_. Her _familia_. They couldn’t help how they’d been born or who to.

               “And so, she wanders as a ghost, looking for her lost _ni_ _ños,_ and pulls down any unwary child that wonders by in twilight.”

               “That’s horrible!” Imelda stamps her foot. “Absolutely horrible!”

               “It is a warning for children to take care… But also…” the old woman points at her. “For young girls to guard their tender hearts.”

               “My heart is not tender!” she feels insulted all over again. She almost hates the old woman now for even saying something like that! I would _never_ sacrifice my _familia_ for anyone! Never!” She cuts her hand through the air. Oscar and Filipe mean more to her than anyone else.

               “Then don’t sacrifice them to the revolutionaries.” _La Superiora_ reaches across the desk as if to touch her but doesn’t. “Not to a soldier’s life. Not even to see what it’s about. Don’t lose them to blood and bullets. Keep them safe from the river.”

               She hadn’t known it was so dangerous, but she does now. She understands. It had been foolish to-- to want to go see just because it was interesting.

               “Thank you, _Madre,_ “ she says, bowing her head, then in a whirl she turns and strides from the room in order to talk sense into Filipe, though as she goes down the hall, she hears _Madre Superiora_ begin to sing. Her voice is not strong and simple... but it’s the song that confuses her. It’s definitely not a hymn of any kind.

“ _Ay de m_ _í, Llorona_

_Llorona de azul celeste_

_Ay de m_ _í, Llorona_

_Llorona de azul celeste_

_Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona_

_No dejar_ _é de quererte_

_No dejar_ _é de quererte”_

               A song about…someone searching for Llorona. Someone loving her. Someone wanting to find her. But why? She doesn't understand, but the music is soft and somber and strikes a chord in her anyway, settling deep in her bones. She listens to the end, to that beautiful, sad, horrible song-- After, in a daze, she walks back to their room..., so out of sorts that she almost forgot to tell Filipe of her decision. Of their decision as a _familia_ to stay well away from those men. She must have sounded sad to them, or perhaps distressed, because despite how much she’d been for seeing the revolutionaries not too much earlier, neither of them asked why.

o.o.o.o.o.o

               

 _Tia Superiora_ had told her that Santa Cecelia was a village, mostly small and unassuming compared to other villages North and West. To Imelda, it feels like a world, crammed with an impossible number of people. She adjusts the shawl on her head, feeling self conscious as she grips it at her neck, sure everyone can tell how unsettled she is. It was like her entire body is a bundle of raw nerves and she wants to duck into the shadows every time someone meets her eyes.  She would like nothing more to bow her head and move through them, unseen and unnoticed—but she’ll never find the _Padre_ that way. She isn’t sure she can even find the Padre at all. People cram every available space that is not filled with buildings or vendors or shrieking birds or churros that leave big heaping piles of dung in the middle of the street.

                It is a horrible place. A miserable place. Packed with men and women, soldiers and beggars. Full of refugees from the countryside, the devastated villages, the torched homesteads. She is a refugee too, of a sort, seeking a place of safety from the outside world. It is funny in a devastating sort of way, how much she wants to be back in the convent now, tucked behind those narrow quiet walls, sweeping or cleaning or just watching the lazy river go by.

                Of course the convent she knew was gone too. The building still stood and many of the _hermanas_ were still there, though others had fled or returned home or were otherwise caught up by the revolution. But the convent itself had become a place for refugees, the sick, the tired, the wounded, the dying.

                And, maybe now, it is full of the banditos that roamed the countryside in droves. There had been rumors they’d wanted to take the convent, to set it up as a headquarters, and it was those rumors that had _Tia Superiora_ finally send Imelda out. _Hermanas_ had a certain level of safety. She, an unattached young woman of fifteen, did not. The twins, too, were in danger. They old enough to be press ganged into doing whatever the banditos wanted them to do, whether it be fetching supplies or murder. So to Santa Cecilia they had gone, with a letter from _Tia Superiora_ to the Padre here, asking him to give them shelter at least.

               It made her angry, though. A kind of low simmering resentment that wouldn’t go away. How dare the world change so completely? How dare it shatter like this before she had even found herself? It is the fault of the Revolutionaries, that she knows and won’t let anyone dissuade her of. They are the ones who started all this. Who caused it. Who had ripped _familias_ apart; making children without parents and parents without children. Who had devastated Lago Verde and left it empty, white crumbling houses with bare windows making them look like skulls. If the marigold bridge had been crowded then, when the old crone spoke of it, now it must be buckling under the weight of so many…

               Imelda shakes her head, trying to pull herself from the dark thoughts that crowd her mind. She needs to find the Padre and present the letter and hopefully be lead somewhere quiet where she and the twins can rest and get their bearings. She’d left them behind at the church, seated in the sanctuary, as Santa Cecilia had overwhelmed them, too. It is better on her own anyway, and she runs less risk of losing them in the flood of people; but without them she feels unbalanced, like she has missing limbs.

               It’s fine. It is. All she must do is find the Padre and then… then find a way to take care of the rest of it. A way to make money, to keep her and the boys fed, to keep her own mind from scattering like a flock of birds.

               She stifles a gasp as a man with a bandolier across his chest makes his way through the crowd, slipping back unconsciously against the shadow of a building. He is rough looking, his face seemed with scars and he is missing an eye. Revolutionary or bandito she doesn’t know, and who can tell? She thinks bitterly. They had nearly been robbed on the road by a man like that. Fortunately she and the twins had managed to drive him off before he’d taken anything of value; but he’d left Oscar with a limp and Filipe with a black eye and her a smarting bruise across her cheek.

               It made her furious that men like that could walk about so freely. It made her terrified. And neither was a feeling she could indulge in… She leans against the wall, closing her eyes against the unexpected sting. She will have to get used to the sight of men like that. The worry and anxiety of what they might do. For this place, Santa Cecilia, was one of the Revolutionaries’ strongholds. She still hasn’t gotten used to the idea that _Tia Superiora_ has sent her here. The old woman hadn’t liked it much better, but it was the safest place to be for now.

               It is not safe at all. How can it be? But she will _make_ it safe, she thinks, knotting her hand into a fist. Safe for Oscar and Filipe. A place where they don’t have to be afraid of being caught or shot or left dead by the side of the road. But how? _How_? She presses the heel of her hand to her eye as she struggles to keep the tears from falling. She won’t do it. She won’t. She _won’t_.

               Somewhere, nearby, someone begins to play a guitar. That sound—that low melody, washes over her, banishing her tears. Though close, it is still too far away for her to listen properly and suddenly she _has_ to. Suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world. Clutching the shawl around her neck, she pushes away from the wall and looks around. Not this way down the street nor that one. She starts to walk, then stops as the music gets fainter. A cart rolls by and she glares at the man pulling it. She can’t hear over that! And what if they stop playing? What if she misses it? Imelda closes her eyes, sends a little prayer, and doubles back the way she came.

                She’s so anxious to find it, she nearly misses it, but a scrawny cat bounding down an alleyway catches her eye and she stops and stares. There is a boy not much older than the twins it seems, standing against the wall, cradling the much too large guitar against himself as his fingers dance over the strings. A man stands nearby, arms folded and watching irritably but Imelda doubts if the boy even knows he’s there. His eyes are closed as he concentrates, head bowed, messy black hair falling over his face. The music is beautiful, upbeat, and one she faintly recognizes but can’t place.

               Then the boy begins to sing, voice high but full and rich.

               “ _En lo alto de la abrupta serranía_ ,   _acampado se_ –Hey!” The boy stops as the man clamps his hand over the neck of the guitar and Imelda starts forward, fist clenched.

               “You said you’d tune my guitar, muchacho, not sing me a ballad.”

               “I was just showing you how well we’d play together. Me and the guitar. You and…your voice.” The boy grins, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth. Imelda stops, uncertain.

               “No.” The man says. “Give it to me.” He tugs the guitar but the boy holds on.

               “Well maybe I can just borrow it then! If I win we can split the money!”

               “No!” and he jerks the guitar away before stalking down the alleyway. The boy sighs and scratches the back of his head.

               “ _Ay caramba_ , maybe Ernesto was right…” the boy mutters to himself. Imelda starts to approach him, not knowing what to say, perhaps even to thank him for the music—But then freezes as he picks up a bandolier from where it had been resting in the shadows of the wall and adjusts it across his body. It is too big for him and there are no bullets in it, and still a different kind of fury takes hold.

               He is playing at being a revolutionary. And now she can place the song, too. ‘La, Adelita’. A Revolutionary favorite. How dare he treat this like it is just a game? ! It’s one thing for Filipe to have had such _fantasias_ when they didn’t know what those men were capable of, but this boy lives in a place filled with people who have suffered from the fighting. How can he do things like this so casually.

               He turns toward her and jolts, then grins. She wants to smack that grin off his face, to lecture him in a way that would make _Tia Superioria_ tell her to back down.

               “ _Hola, prima_ _! Como esta?_ ”

               How dare he be so familiar with her and call her cousin? She is _not_ his cousin and he would regret it if she were because she would not tolerate this.  But he is no _family_ of hers and so she will have nothing to do with him.

               Imelda lifts her chin and turns away, using her anger to push away her fear. She has that to thank him for, she supposes. But if she ever should see him again then…

               “Hey, so, this may be a bit of weird question,” the boy says, dancing around her to walk backwards in front of her, unheeding of road or people. ”But can you sing? Or dance? Happen to have a guitar I can borrow for maybe five minutes?”

               She refuses to answer. She won’t regard him with a single syllable. Though she nearly does when it seems he’ll back into an old _abuela,_ with a basket full of parsnips, but he dodges around her easily and somehow that makes Imelda even more annoyed at him.

               “Because, I don’t know if you heard, but one of the head honchos is coming here! Maybe even Pancho Villa himself, eh? So they’re looking for some people to come entertain him, a sort of welcome to Santa Cecilia kind of thing! You know, little singing, little _fiesta,_  and a little _dinero_ in it for the people they pick. What do you say? I’ll split the money with you if we win! What do you say?” He grinned brightly, dimples deeping.

               What did she say? Nothing! And if she were to say anything to this empty headed _ni_ _ño_ , it would be no! She wouldn’t sing or play for them! Not only did she hate them, she’d be terrified to do so. Even the thought of going up, facing all those murderers, made her legs weak.

               But then…

               “Ah, _hola_?” the boy says. “ _Tu comprende?”_

               She glares at him. Of course she understands. He hunches his shoulders and gives her a bit of a sheepish smile.

               “Iii’m guessing that’s a no.”

               “I understand, _idiota_ ,” she snaps. “I’m trying to think. And watch where you’re going,” she adds, annoyed at herself from even saying so. Though it would serve the boy right for stepping in churro dung.

               “ _Ay_ ,” he says, lifting his foot just in time. “Thanks for the warning, _Prima_.”

               “Don’t call me that.”

               “Then what should I call you?”

               She presses her lips together, certainly not giving him her name on top of it all. In fact she won’t speak to him a third time. She just lifts her head, twitching her skirt away from the pile of dung, and keeps walking. The boy falls in step beside her, hands in his pockets.

               She tries to ignore him, dragging her mind back to the thought she was trying to have. She was terrified of the Revolutionaries. Those big men with rifles and—

               He starts whistling ‘La Adelita’ and she wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. Can’t he go bother someone else? No, she knows, not yet, and if she could think for two seconds without her popping her thoughts like a soap bubble, she’d understand why. He catches her glare and gives her another sheepish grin.

               “Aheh. Sorry.”

 _Madre mio._ The point is, she thinks, trying to slim down this thought before the boy breaks it again; she is afraid of them. The point is, they are a definite presence in Santa Cecilia, and might be even moreso once this head honcho arrives. She will have to learn _not_  to be afraid of them for the twins’ sake as well as her own. Perhaps the best way to do it is to confront them head on. Make herself sing for them. To stare into their faces and know that she will no longer fear them.

               “I will sing with you,” she says finally.

               “ _Excellente!_ ” he says with a wide grin. “You won’t regret this _Pri_ …er… _Se_ _ñorita._ ”

               No. She wouldn’t. Not a single second of it.

o.o.o.o.o.o

               

               ...Or… will she?

               They are standing in the plaza and a whole cadre of Revolutionaries are there, as well as a throng of other people, attention focused on the little ramshackle stage that’s been set up. It’s just a board or two on some bricks and wobbles dangerously. The three man band currently singing ‘ _Siete Leguas’_  on it don’t seem to mind.

               Imelda minds. Her palms are sweating, her stomach churning. It’s not just the Revolutionaries now that are the problem, but everyone else. She’s just now realized that she’ll be the center of attention, that everyone will be staring at her—that she doesn’t even know quite what to sing.

               It doesn’t help that the little flea is still buzzing around her, flinging out song suggestions and how they’ll sing it and asking if they should dance. Why can’t he be _still_. The twins were never like this even at their most excitable! She doesn’t know most of the songs anyway. Oh, she’s heard one or two and heard of a few more, but she’s never approved and so never bothered to remember the words. And now the only songs she does know are hymns. She is sure they don’t want to hear a rendition of ‘Ave Maria’.

…Though…she does know one other song.

An idea comes to her, slowly, curiously… she reaches for it…

“—But on the second hand not ‘La Adelita because I’ve heard that song five times over the past two days and even though I could sing it right, they probably—”

“Will you be _quiet_?” she snaps, stamping her foot. He shut up, his teeth clicking together. Now that she _had_ a moment… She dabs the sweat from her face with the edge of the shawl, wincing as she inadvertently hits the bruise.

“Hey…” the boy says quietly, touching her arm. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

                She looks down at him, feeling a flutter of warmth at the question—then quickly jerking her arm away. She _refuses_ to--

               “ _Se_ _ñorita_ , _niño,”_ the organizer says, gesturing to them. “You’re up.”

               Up? Ice floods her veins. She didn’t even know the song had ended! But it had and now it was her turn. She clutches at her skirt, then raises her head and approaches the stage, trying to pretend her insides aren’t churning. She steps up on the stage and a low groan makes her freeze. She finds herself staring at a line of mustachioed men, bandoliers across their chests and rifles by their sides. How can she do this.

               “Not you again, _niño,_ ” says one of the men and Imelda almost laughs in a frenzied way about sharing a feeling in common with a Revolutionary. “Haven’t we already told you.”

               “ _Si_ , you have,” the boy says. “But this time I brought a friend! She’s amazing! Annd this friend needs me to borrow a guitar so I can—so we can show her stuff.”

               “Fine. _Fine!_ ” the man throws his hands in the air, then turns to yell over his shoulder. “Can someone get this _chingaquedito_ a guitar before I use his guts for shoelaces?”

               Imelda is grateful for the time. She takes a deep breath, then another, trying to unclench her fists. She knows what she will do. Now that she has a moment she can grab onto the thought and pull it into the light… La Llorona… Of course she must sing that. But she will not sing it as someone pining for the terrible woman, no, she will sing it as if she’s the terrible woman herself. But she will not be drowning children or wailing about wrongs, but luring soldiers to their demise. As a woman wronged who wants to save her _familia_ from the ravages of war, not damn them.

               A man from the crowd gives the boy a guitar.

               “ _Gracias_!” the boy says, strumming a happy chord. Then turns to grin at Imelda expectantly. “Ready when you are!”

               She … is ready in her heart, but her body remains frozen, rooted to the spot. Now that the moment is here, nothing about her can move.

               “ _Seee_ _ñorita_?” the boy says, plucking a string like a question mark, his expression telling her to please, please begin.

               “Incredible talent,” the man says dryly and Imelda flushes.

“               No, it’s fine. Hey listen to this one!” He lets out a sound like ‘Yowp!’ And begins to dance back and forth. “Welcome to Santa Cecilia! Hey, Honcho. we’re so glad to meet ya! So sit on down, on…chair not ground and we’ll…uh….hand you a glass of tequila!”

               “Oh _Dios Mio,_ _niño_ ,” the man groans massaging his forehead. “I’m going to murder you.”

               “No!” Imelda says, stamping her foot. The sound rattles through the whole plaza and the man looks up at her shocked. She meets his eyes. How dare he even _joke_ about that! Yes, she can sing and yes she will sing and she will show them her fury. She takes a deep breath and begins to sway a little, shifting the soft red shawl to her shoulders and pulling the pins from her hair, shaking it down. Then she meets their eyes again. The eyes of those _killers_.

“ _Ay de mí, Llorona_  
Llorona de roja suave  
Ay de mí, Llorona  
Llorona de roja suave”

               Her voice is soft, despite her determination but she doesn’t let it slow her down, instead using it, making them lean forward. She begins to dance, slowly, spreading her shawl almost like wings. The song continues of the lover risking their lives to find Llorona because of the love they felt, and how they had climbed the highest pine tree just to try and see her.

“ _Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona_  
No dejaré de quererte  
No dejaré de quererte  
Me subí al pino más alto, Llorona  
A ver si te divisaba  
Me subí al pino más alto, Llorona  
A ver si te divisaba.”  

               The boy begins to play, the rich warm tones of the guitar startling her at first and then encouraging her. She lets herself go, to flow into the music, to let the song carry her and the feeling, too. She steps off the stage, light as bird.

               She catches the eyes of all the Revolutionaries there, and then the boy, who is watching her with an intense gaze. She doesn’t smile but pitches her voice lower as she sings of the sorrow of looking for Llorona, and the greater sorrow of finding her:

“ _Ayer lloraba por verte, Llorona_  
Hoy lloro porque te vi  
Ayer lloraba por verte, Llorona  
Hoy lloro porque te vi”

               She tips a finger under his chin, lifting it upward, then backs slowly to the stage, crooking the same finger, luring him to follow. He does, still playing, the music filling her through and through, humming in her bones. Then she moves onto the stage itself and he comes to stand beside her. She starts to circle him, still singing, but he follows as if mesmerized.

“ _Ay de mí, Llorona_  
Llorona de roja suave  
Ay de mí, Llorona  
Llorona de roja suave”

As the song begins to end she touches his shoulder to turn him around, toward the audience. He moves at the lightest touch… she steps behind him and sings, _sings_ , from the core of her, full of warmth and fury and passion how she won’t stop loving. Loving life. Lives. Her own ideals.

“ _No dejaré de quererte_  
No dejaré de quererte  
No dejaré de quererteeeee” 

And then, she takes the shawl from her shoulders and drapes it over the boy’s face like a shroud, covering his eyes with her hand, but keeping the rest of it pulled away so the Revolutionaries can very clearly see the bandolier he is wearing. He stills against her, falls back against her lightly as if he really has died. She rests his chin on his head and sings softly into the silenc

“ _Ay, ay, ayyyy”_

                And there is silence, only the faint din of the village beyond. Then the spokesman for the Revolutionaries claps and soon the others do too, loud and long. Imelda flushes and lightning zings through her at the applause, at the looks she sees on everyone’s faces. Though it only takes her a moment to realize that they didn’t get what she was trying to do. What she meant. But maybe that is for the best. On their own heads be it. She had looked them in the eyes and won.

                Imelda takes the shawl from the boy’s face and finds him blinking owlishly up at her before his face breaks into a wide grin. The spokesman gets up, removing his hat and says breathlessly:

                “ _Se_ _ñorita,_ please sing for us.”

               Imelda smiles and flips the shawl back over her head.

               “No,” she says, and walks away.


	3. The Rough Afterlife of Héctor Rivera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanting is not the same thing as having, and though Héctor is...kind of glad to have escaped the Final Death, the ...situation itself hasn't gotten any easier to know how to deal with.

For a dead guy who had narrowly escaped being a _mucho_ dead guy, Héctor was not feeling all that great. Though it had been a few days since that disastrous, wonderful, confusing, _Dia de Muertos --_ and the morning after where he reeaally should have made a rain check-- he still was trying to process it all. At the moment he was trying to process it while lying in Chicharron’s hammock (seeing the weird irony of _that_ but not knowing what to do with it), watching the dull day outside and idly resting a hand on the ragged old journal that lay on his breastbone. He had scavenged it from Chicharron’s things, just as the rest of the people here had come to pick clean the bungalow of another who had gone. He didn’t blame them. What else was there to do when someone left? And things could be hard to come by down here, even junk.

He swung himself idly, one foot on the ground, and smiled as another wave of warmth rattled slightly through him and made him shiver at the sensation. It was nice being remembered, especially since he’d spent the last year or so praying for the flood of warmth as they became terrifyingly few and far between. Sometimes a week would go by where the cold would settle in and he had thought to himself that ‘this was it’, only to nearly cry with relief as he felt the weak warm pulse. But now it was a constant tide, a gentle push. Coco remembered him. Imelda was kinnd of sooort of letting him a bit closer, even though he was sure he’d embarrassed her that morning-- and he had a great great grandson with an amazing talent. So he should be ecstatic. Or at least happy enough to write another song for Coco since she was probably sick of ‘Remember Me’.

Héctor sighed and plopped the open book over his face, letting his arms drape on either side of the hammock, listening to the faint rattle of his phalanges against the floor. To be honest, _he_ had gotten sick of ‘Remember Me’. The first time he’d heard it had been from a guy, newly dead, singing it off key as he stumbled out of a cantina. Héctor had been shocked, too shocked to do much more than ask him about it in stuttering tones. But the guy had been in the middle of mourning himself and so Héctor had sat with him, listening to his whole life story until the glimmer of dawn had appeared on the horizon and the guy had passed out on the bench. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that Ernesto must have used it. At first, he’d felt betrayed…

“Ha!” Héctor said to himself.

…but then he’d thought, eh, well Enrnesto couldn’t have known really just what that song had meant to him. And he was glad that it had helped someone else. And then he’d heard it again, and again, and _again_. People had sung it in bars and cantinas, when radios had first appeared, the upbeat version had played in a way he’d never heard it before; distant and kind of tinny. And all wrong. All all wrong.

“It was a _lullabye_ , _idiota!_ ’” he snapped, raising his hands to the sky, wanting to grab the imaginary Ernesto and shake him. “When you read music you can’t just read the _notes_! _Ay_.”

He dropped his hands again in frustration, because it didn’t much matter now, did it? Anyway it was true he’d been annoyed but also glad that people seemed to like it and, more importantly, take comfort from it. Though he hadn’t exactly meant it to be an anthem for the dead. Then his other songs had come through, too. ‘ _Poco Loco_ ’, ‘ _Elmundo es mi Familia_ _’_ which he’d admittedly written inspired by Ernesto but hadn’t even finished and was a bit of a dud besides. ‘Remember Me’ aside, he’d been happy to hear the others everywhere and had bragged about it because how could he not? Not that anyone had _believed_ him and there was only so many times even he could stand being laughed at. But even then, he had thought, well Ernesto would set it straight. Though people had claimed Ernesto wrote all his own songs, Héctor knew how rumor could be so he had been sad but thrilled when Ernesto died.

He had even been there when Ernesto had arrived. It had been a happy coincidence really. Well happy at first. Ernesto had burst through the double doors the building had had at that time, even then surrounded by fans and a great cheer had gone up around him with people screaming: ‘ _Ernesto!_ _’_ or ‘ _de la Cruz!_ _’_ And Héctor had been ecstatic for him. Had wooped for him. Because he’d gotten what he’d wanted, and become famous without a doubt. In that moment in seeing him there, all worries had left him. He’d even tried to get to him, had called out his name. But Ernesto hadn’t even turned in his direction and had been swept along by the tide of adoring fans.

And, well, that was fine. Sure! Héctor had been dead for at least twenty years at that point so he couldn’t have expected to be recognized, and especially not in a crowd. But he had waited-- for Ernesto to look for him. To even mention him. And he’d thought, hey, since Ernesto was a celebrity, maybe he could talk the border agents into letting Héctor cross. But there had been _nada_. He’d even gone to a _Cinco de Mayo_ parade that Ernesto had featured in, braving a _really_ bad rendition of ‘Remember Me’ and trying not to cringe. He’d made his way to the front of the crowd and had waved his hands and jumped in the air and even tried to dash to the float, but the _seguridad_ had dragged him away.

Héctor had even started making plans to break into the tower--but by that time television had appeared and some kind soul had invited the _olvidado_ to watch at least one broadcast at his upscale bar, since it was Ernesto’s first show in the Land of the Dead. Héctor had sat there, in eager wonder, watching his friend on that small black and white panel, proud of him and happy for him and his gleaming bones and winning smile--once again so glad that he had made it so far. Héctor remembered sitting there at the bar with the others, tumbler of tequila in his hands to toast his old friend, his best friend, his _hermano_ in everything but blood. Only to have his old friend, best friend, _hermano_ that he had _taught_ that he had _helped_ that he had sacrificed any chance of looking Imelda in the eye again _for_ , tell the Land of the Dead smugly that, of course he wrote all his own songs.

He’d been too mad even to hang around, He had slammed the tequila back because even annoying _hermano_ were still _hermano_ and had left, not trusting himself to watch the rest of it without doing something to ruin it for everyone. Not wanting to hear his songs butchered by some _cabron_ who thought the only way to make things _good_ was to make them _flashy._ But more than that it had _hurt_. _Dios mio_ it had hurt. There hadn’t been enough tequila in either world to sooth it. But even then, even _then_ he’d forgiven him because Ernesto had always been insecure and sure he’d lose attention as soon as he’d gotten it. If he’d told someone that the songs weren’t his, well, he might have not been as popular as he’d become.

Héctor had consoled himself by, even more than he already had, playing the songs himself. Just so people could hear how he had _meant_ them to be played. And even if they didn’t believe he’d written them, it had been wonderful seeing their eyes light up. Seeing them sway or dance or laugh or cry in the memory that those songs had brought to the surface. In fact, in a way, he almost had to thank Ernesto for sharing his work, for giving something precious to others that Héctor could invoke to inspire a dance or soothe tears.

Of course it would have been nice if Ernesto hadn’t also _killed him_.

“You owe me for that, _muchacho,_ ” Héctor growled, sitting up and letting the empty journal fall to his lap. Though even _that_ he could forgive. He’d left just when Ernesto had needed him the most, and more to the point had lead him onto thinking that he’d be with him to the end. And he’d _known_ how Ernesto could get when being left behind. It wasn’t an excuse for killing a man, but Héctor had to admit he’d placed himself in the situation. And, hey, death wasn’t _so_ bad once you got used to it. Actually a lot less stressful than life, because what did you have to worry about?

But he _wouldn_ _’t_ forgive Ernesto for hurting Imelda the way he did, and he’d _never ever_ forgive him for tossing Miguel off the tower, for nearly killing him when _all they_ _’d wanted_ was to put Héctor’s stupid picture on the stupid _ofrenda_. For nearly destroying his chance to see Coco at all, because Ernesto was terrified of even the slightest nick in his perfect public image. That _hijo de perra_ had nearly destroyed his _famila_ with as much ease as brushing off a fly and if he wasn’t already dead, Héctor would be highly tempted to hurry along the process.

Only… Well…Ernesto wouldn’t have been able to destroy anything if Héctor hadn’t given him the chance. If he had just stayed put in Santa Cecilia with his beautiful _esposa_ and precious _hija_ …. But he hadn’t. He’d left. He’d died. He’d left them all alone in the world. And, the sad thing was, in the beginning, it had never occurred to him just how hard it would be for them. Sure he was dead, and he knew Coco would be sad, but Imelda could console her and of course they’d have their song. Even when he’d been sick of ‘Remember Me’, he’d still held the mental image of Imelda singing it to their daughter in a soft sweet way; of Coco joining in in perfect harmony as she cuddled in her Mamá’s lap.

…And then…that night…

That night when everything changed…

He had been playing _la Cigarra_ in a little plaza not far from the Department of Family Affairs for a small group of _qu_ _é pasa_ dead, still dazed from the transition… He’d finished the song and looked up and there she’d been, standing there looking startled and a little lost, just like when he had first seen her and absolutely beautiful. He had forgotten everything in that moment, death, grief, anxiety. He had just wanted to go to her and spin her around and listen to her bright laugh.

He had seen the surprise, the hurt which had felt like a knife to the gut and then the anger, a deep _fury_ that only Imelda was capable of. He had stood there, cringing away from her as she screamed at him and _hit_ him, the sound seeming to rattle through his entire body. It was then he’d realized with a growing horror that all this time she hadn’t known for sure that he was dead. He’d effectively left her for _seventy years_. Had left Coco. That Coco had had no letters in all that time. Had had _nothing_ from him. Who had probably thought, as Imelda had, that he’d forgotten about _her_.

Héctor sucked in a shuddering breath, gripping the sides of the hammock and staring blankly at the water beyond. His poor baby girl growing up, never knowing how much he had loved her. Not knowing how much he’d _missed_ her. Feeling abandoned like so many he’d known growing up, children with hollow eyes and reaching hands. He had staggered away, feeling like he was dying all over again. He had no stomach and yet it had been _twisting_ , sharp pains racing through him doubling him over and making him want to retch, though there was nothing to come out and nowhere for it to come from. There were no tears to cry and no heart to break. He was nothing but bone and yet the feeling that had swelled inside him demanded _something,_ so he’d screamed and had smashed the guitar he’d brought with him to a thousand pieces.

Which maay have been a little over-dramatic, he thought now, as that hadn’t even belonged to him but at the time he had had a sudden violent hatred for it and everything it represented. Everything _he_ had represented. He had left. Had chosen to break apart their little _familia_. Had _destroyed_ it, them. His Coco. His Imelda. All because of some selfish desire to travel. Oh, Ernesto had been a convenient excuse, but he had wanted to go too. He had wanted to see more of the world, like they used to do before Coco was born, like they had planned on. He had felt young and trapped and wanted to see what adventure the land outside of Santa Cecilia could offer. He would gladly have taken his _familia_ with him but Imelda had refused and they had fought more than once over it and maybe she’d been right… but whether right or not it was on _him_ for leaving.

Maybe Coco wouldn’t even _want_ to see him again now, he thought dourly, and he couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t any reason the memories that flooded through him were good ones. Maybe she’d gotten her mother’s hurt temper and held onto that hurt as hard as he could to use it as a shield. Maybe he was doomed to spend the rest of his after life with them hating him. And Imelda wanted him to face it. To sing for Coco. To let her know him. He wasn’t anyone worthy of being known. ‘Remember Me’ would feel like a punch to the gut and anything else… _everything_ else..

“Maybe I could write a song called: ‘Your Papá is a Big Stupid Jerk’!” He shouted to the water. A bark answered him. He startled so bad that he fell off the hammock, the world spinning as his skull popped off and rolled across the floor to land against colorful paws.

“ _Ay,_ Dante, aren’t you supposed to be a living dog?”

Dante merely panted at him and Héctor closed an eye as drool dripped on his forehead. With a sigh he fetched his head and twisted it back on securely, wiping the drool off with his sleeve and suddenly remembering the tear was gone. That Imelda had stitched it back together. He touched the spot and then shook his head.

“I’ve been here for too long. Need to get some fresh air. After all...” He grinned at the dog, spreading his hands. “I’m alive, right? I should be celebrating!”

Dante barked in agreement, wagging his tail,tiny wings fluttering in excitement.He was the weirdest _alebrije_ Héctor had ever seen. Miguel’s _alebrije,_ he thought fondly. That talented obnoxious big hearted kid that was proud of him in spite of everything. That had stuck up for him. That had done his best to prove his worth and in the end had loved his _familia_ so much he had been willing to sacrifice what meant most to him. His wonderful _hijo_ … that he would completely miss growing up because he _still_ didn’t have a photo on the stupid _ofrenda!_

“Graaaah!” He kicked an empty bottle, sending it swirling into a stack of boxes that hit the floor with a terrific crash, sending Chicharron’s things spinning everywhere. Dante whimpered and he sighed heavily, picking the things up and putting them back where they belonged.

“It’s fine, you know? Just fine. I will see him eventually. And if Imelda is still talking to me, maybe she can tell me what he’s doing.” And maybe she would be. But who knew. He could open his mouth and she’d find new and inventive ways to hate him. “ _Ay yi_ I need to get out of here _perrito.:_ _”_ Before he drowned. “Let’s go get a drink, hey? And see what’s happening.”

Dante seemed to agree and fell at his side as he walked outside. There weren’t many awake at this h our, most of the people here preferring to come out at twilight or beyond. Harder to see they were falling apart in the darkness. Still there were some out that greeted him as he passed with a:

“Hey, _Primo_ Héctor!”

Or:

“Come sit with us!”

“Come drink with us!”

"Maybe later,” he called back, knowing why they were so eager. News traveled fast and apparently having the man who killed you trying to murder your living grandson made you a bit famous in the Land of the Dead. Who knew? Later on he would celebrate with them because happiness was infectious and he could use some of that right now, but for the moment he preferred to be on his own. He parked himself at a little bar, to small and rickety to have a name. Though some called it _peque_ _ño cielo_ or sometimes rat poison depending on the quality of booze Fernando had managed to get. He sat at one of the wobbly stools just underneath the slanting roof and grabbed a bowl of peanuts, dropping a few for Dante to munch on.

“ _Hola,_ Héctor,” Fernando said, popping out from behind the bar. He had been a short man in life, he’d said, and even shorter in death, but had the mustache to make up for it, drooping down to nearly his shoulders but curled up at the ends.

_“Hola, Tío_ Fernando,” he said, giving his most charming grin. “ _Como esta?_ I see you curled your mustache today. You look _muy guapo_. Bet you have to fend the ladies off with a stick.”

“I take it you’re not going to pay your tab today,” Fernando said flatly.

“Nooot so much,” Héctor said with a little wince. “But hey I’ll get to it soon. I promise. I have something in the works.” A lie but he would think of something. “I just need a little pick me up. Just a tiny drop.” He gestured with two fingers just how tiny a drop he was willing to take. Fernando heaved a sigh that rattled his bones before hopping off his foot stool and grabbing a bottle from the wall.

“ _Muchas Gracias,_ ” Héctor said, determined now to find some way to pay his tab and maybe a little over.

“ _De nada_ , Héctor. This one’s on the house.”

“Ey?” Fernando was a nice guy but usually not so generous.

“Heard about what happened,” Fernando said, filling a shot glass. Héctor only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Who hadn’t?

“Glad to see you’re still with us,” Fernando said and Héctor softened a bit.

“Glad to still be here, _muchacho._ _”_ And he was. For the most part.

“When you get rich and famous, you’d better remember this place… and pay your tab twice over.”

“Rich and famous?” Héctor said with a laugh, then realized that Fernando was serious. “What makes you think I’ll be rich and famous?”

“Those songs were yours, weren’t they?” Fernando set the shot glass in front of him. “People should make it up to you. Even if not, I bet there are some rich muckity mucks clamoring for more.”

“You think so?” Héctor said, cringing a little at the thought. Fernando nodded as he began to clean a glass with a towel.

“I know so, my friend. That’s how they work, those muckity mucks.”

“ _Ay_ I hope not. Imelda will _kill_ me.” He didn’t know why she would specifically, but he knew she would want to. He would be sure to find out why when she snarled it at him before marching away. Another mistake he’d made. He’d _like_ to stop hurting her only he just couldn’t seem to.

“Come _on,_ _hombre_. You’re in the Land of the Dead,” Fernando said, gesturing. “You don’t _have_ to still be married to her, you know. Get out. Meet some girls. Best thing about dying young is they flock to you like pigeons. And…” the bartender gave him a sly look. “I know one or two who wouldn’t mind rattling around with you, if you know what I mean.”

“Aheh no thanks. Not right now. Iii’ve still got a lot on my mind.”

Fernando shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

Héctor was relieved. Sure he’d looked at the odd girl or two in his time, living and dead. They were pretty and he had eyes. But he’d never really had any interest in pursuing them. In life Imelda had been enough to try and keep up with and-- in death? Things were just…complicated. Not to mention Imelda would be mad. She’d be so mad she’d find new and inventive ways to remind him that he was a horrible person. But he was just being mean… he thought with a sigh, turning the shot glass in place on the bar. She had reasons for being mad at him and she was even worse when she was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.

Also he was apparently the love of her life…?

He smiled, then frowned. Poor Imelda.Stuck with a no account _flojo_ for all these years. He raised the glass to drink and the faint smell made him nauseated. It was such a visceral sensation that he grabbed his stomach and jolted when he touched his spine.

“Something wrong, Héctor?” Fernando said.

“I…” He looked at the pale gold liquid in the glass.

“Tequila,” Fernando said, looking concerned. “Your favorite.”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” This drink. His last drink as a living man. He wanted to throw it away from him. He wanted to throw up. “On second thought, I’m not thirsty just now,” he said, setting the glass back down and nearly tripping over Dante as he got up.

“Héctor?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll skip. _Hasta luego!_ ” He walked without seeing, trying to shake the sensation, the memory of dying, but it was like the cold had got into his bones again and he couldn’t get it loose. Figured. He had been saved from the very brink of the final death and now he couldn’t even enjoy it.

“I’m a _mess_ , my friend,” he said to Dante who looked up at him with soulful eyes and whined. Héctor patted his head, feeling a little better. He made his way down to the docks and sighed, sitting and dangling his feet in the water, wiggling his toes. Tiny glowy fish came up and bumped their snoots against it before scattering away into the dark.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he murmured, catching his fingers together and looking at them. He missed skin. And thumbnails. He’d never really payed much attention to thumbnails in life but they gave so much definition to something that was otherwise just kind of a white blob.

“How can I play for Coco when I can barely hold myself together? What if she doesn’t want me to? I’m starting to wonder if…” he trailed off as he looked over and noticed Dante was gone. Héctor made a face. “Yeah, thanks for listening.”

Then he sat alone in the quiet, listening to the trickle of the water against the dock, the distant call of an _alebrije_ overhead, swirling with color in the tired blue, the sky darkening, twilight coming. He heard footsteps and clutched his hat lower over his head,hoping it was no one he knew because he wasn’t in the mood to be bothered just now.

“He-Héctor?”

Héctor blinked in surprise and looked over at the short man with his hat in his hands, Dante sitting beside him and panting.

“Julio? What are you doing down here?” And then a terrifying thought and he started to rise. “Has something happened to--”

“No. _Nada_ ,” Julio said quickly, waving a hand. “Just thought I would come see you.”

“See… me?” Héctor said, shocked again as the puzzled warmth went through him that had nothing to do with a memory. Julio looked down at his hat.

“If…that’s alright?”

“ _S_ _í. Sí!”_ He patted the dock beside him. Then it occurred to him that Julio might want to go to the bar instead, but before he could offer, the man pulled off his boots and sat beside him, feet in the water. Dante wormed between them, tail thumping against the wood. Héctor was kind of glad for him as he twiddled his thumbs. Julio cleared his throat. Something to say. Something to say.

“Well… son in law, eh?” Héctor said, nudging him with a fist. “Nice to meet you.”And weird to meet him too. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Coco married? To this guy? He was an old man. The pieces didn’t fit even if he knew they should.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Julio said with an unsteady grin. “Ah…should I call you Papá?”

“No,” Héctor said quickly. “No, no, no. Please don’t. _Please_ don’t.”

“Oh good,” Julio said, sounding relieved.

More silence.

It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been at the _Cerdo_ , but it was close.

What should he say? Should he bring up Coco? He wanted to know but he kind of didn’t want to know at the same time. He smiled to himself, shaking his head.

“It’s hard, you know? In my mind, Coco is still a little girl.”

“Children are like that,” Julio said with a soft chuckle. “Even when you’re looking at them. Victoria is a woman grown and died and I still remember when she was a tiny muñeca. I could barely hold her. Thought I would break her if I looked at her wrong.”

“But the smiles they give you when they recognize you…” Héctor smiled, remembering Coco in his arms, all soft chubby baby, no teeth, more drool than he expected, but that smile she’d given him and the way her eyes had scrunched up all happy. He laughed to himself. “I used to tickle her belly 'til she farted.”

Julio laughed, too. “Victoria did that! Ah…” then he cleared his throat. “Don’t tell her I said that.” He seemed to consider a moment. “Coco would get a kick out of it.”

“Would she?” Héctor said, gripping the edge of the dock and imagining her laugh. What would it sound like?

“ _S_ _í,_ she was full of good cheer and playful…and, to see her dance…” Julio put a hand to his chest. “ _Mi amor_ _…_ Skirts and braids flying… Every man with his eyes on her. But she would look only at me… One time that look made me walk right into a wall and I knew then and there I had to marry her…” 

“Is that right?” he murmured, another warm chill going through him as he rubbed his arm, imagining it. Then, a hopeful spark. “Imelda… was okay with that?”

“Oh…” Julio frowned and the chill went away. “No… No, she had to sneak out to do that. She loved music, more than anything… except…” He made a gesture. “Mamá Imelda…is….”

“Yeah…” Héctor said, taking a deep breath. “I know…”

“But… but you know,” Julio said. “I thought I couldn’t live without it. I used to dance too. Came from the country to show my stuff and wanted to go to Mexico City, maybe get on the De La Cruz Hour.”

“He had an _hour_?” Héctor said, knowing Julio meant some sort of television thing but who knew Ernesto could carry his own material for a whole hour?

“It was more of a variety show,” Julio said. “Where you went to make it big. That’s what they said at the time, eh? First go to Plaza De la Cruz, then to the Hour and after that…the world. If you were lucky.”

Héctor nodded, still stuck on the hour thing. What did he do anyway?

“I bet he talked the whole time.”

“Sometimes, mostly about himself. Or quoted movies. Most of the time when he was on, which wasn’t much, he sang, great songs too. That’s where I first heard Poco Loco … Mamá Imelda caught me singing it to Coco once and--” the man shuddered. Héctor flinched in sympathy, all his bones seeming to clench at once. That …had probably not gone well at all. He patted Julio’s shoulder.

“Sorry about that one, _muchacho_.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Julio said and Héctor decided not to point out just how much his fault that was. “Where I’m from, we have snow sometimes and the look she gave me made that seem like the middle of summer…” He shuddered again. “I’d been courting Coco for a while then and I was sure Mamá Imelda would kick me out. But Coco knew just what to do. She pushed me in the shop and said: ‘Mamá, Julito wants to learn to make shoes.’”

Héctor felt strangely relieved at that detail. That Coco knew how to handle her mamá’s more…temperamental side.

“It wasn’t what I’d wanted to do of course,” Julio said. “I was a young man and I still had it in me to make it big…”

Oh no… Héctor threaded his fingers together and prayed to whatever might be listening that this wasn’t going to turn out how he thought it was going to turn out.

“Coco and I used to talk all the time about going out… seeing the world…”

No…

“But of course, it was just a dream for her, because Coco would not leave her mamá or her _familia_.”

Please, no….

“And I decided then and there that Coco wouldn’t come with me…”

No, no, no… He buried his face in his hands.

“…I would stay with Coco…Nothing is more important then _familia_.”

“ _Ay, muchacho,_ you’re killing me…” Why-- _Whyyy_ did it have to be a story like _that?_ It was a good story and he is glad for his baby girl, but seriously? Who up there did he piss off to have his life turn out this way? No one, he knew. He’d done all this himself. But come _on_. “I mean couldn’t you have been, I don’t know, a ranchero or something? A banker? A cat herder? Anything?”

“What?” Julio said, sounding confused.

“Nothing…” He couldn’t. He just-- He knew he had to sit here and listen to more about Coco and he wanted to know more about Coco but maybe it wasn’t a good time to do it all at once because he kind of wanted to jump in the water and sink right to the bottom. Of course he had stayed. Had been a good husband. A good father. Imelda must have looked at him-- at them every day and-- Dante whined and licked his face and Héctor sighed, pushing the dog’s snout away.

And what did it matter? _Julio had been a good husband and father._ That was good. Héctor had caused enough trouble without feeling sorry for himself.

“Hey, listen, this is no place to talk about memories.” He got up, absently shaking the water off his feet. “I know this great little cantina. We could go there. Get a drink.” Try not to slowly die inside. “You can tell me all about Coco.”

“Ah…well I would…” Julio said standing and looking around. “But… it’s getting late…”

“It is,” Héctor agreed, glad for that, more relieved than he should be.”Wee can always do it later. You know here I am.”

“Ah, _s_ _í sí…_ ” Julio continued to rotate his hat and Héctor had the feeling that he had something on his mind he’d really rather not say which meant Héctor would really rather not here. But things being as they were, he had a feeling both was going to happen.

“Yes, I should be going.” Julio crammed the hat on his head and then pulled on his boots. “But um… you know… it’s been a while since Mamá Imelda said you could come to the hacienda…”

“I know…I’ve just been… busy.” Another lie. Sort of. He’d been busy building up his courage to thinking about going there and facing-- that.

“I understand, I understand,” Julio said. “But …it would be better if you just..made an appearance sooner than later.”

…of course. He winced.

“She’s on the warpath, isn’t she?”

“She’s been… a little tense lately, _s_ _í.”_

_“Ay…_ ” Héctor clunked the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I’ll be there soon. I promise.” And then a pause. “Just…” he cringed and gestured with both hands. “Don’t…tell Imelda I said soon… or…maybe… not tell her…anything?” Because he had the feeling his idea of soon wasn’t anywhere closer to hers. Julio nodded unhappily.

“I won't. But…soon… Before…” he trailed off. That could imply so many things and none of them good.

“Soon, soon…” he said, waving a goodbye. He waited until Julio had started back the way he’d come, and because Héctor was a little worried about him, gave Dante a look to follow him and help him back to the station. Dante barked and pranced by Julio’s side, then yelped sharply as his foot got caught in a hole. Julio chuckled and freed him with a surprising gentleness that made Héctor smile. 

Though as soon as he disappeared Héctor slumped again, quietly bumping his skull against the stone wall. This was going to go terribly. He knew it. He _knew it_. Would Final Death really have been that bad? Would it have been better if he’d faded? If he had, Imelda wouldn’t have to worry about him knowing Coco and he wouldn’t’ve had to worry about Coco hating him -- and completely discounting everything Miguelito had done that night.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed home that night, kid,” he groaned skyward. “I’m doing all I can here.” Though…if that were true, he’d be going up to the hacienda like she’d asked. Well okay, fine.. He would show up…soon… tomm.. The next few d… Soon. _Soon_ soon. Maybe bring flowers?

Hopefully, whatever he did…whenever he went…he wouldn’t somehow make things worse….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Happy Father's Day~~


	4. Historia de Héctor: De Colores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story of the past: What's a burgeoning _musico_ to do without a guitar? Héctor tries, fails, and realizes there's a lot more to growing up than he ever imagined.

The Flores farm glows softly under the light of a full moon. The windows are dark and even Murte the dog is asleep, draped in front of the doorway.

_Excelente._

Héctor rubs his hands, the tired aches from the long walk melting away. He picks up the long black hem of the habit as he creeps closer. All he needs is a chicken, even a tiny one. Though he would prefer a fat sleek one that would taste delicious in _pollo picado_ , or _pollo motule_ _ño_ or even just wrapped up in a tortilla with beans and rice and cheese. Mm. His stomach grumbles and he pats it sadly. He and hunger are old, amigos, and he usually tries to satisfy it when he can-- but this chicken will not be for eating. No, he has much bigger plans.

The chickens are kept in a fenced off yard at the side of the house. Though today the fence is higher than it has been. Héctor somewhat wishes he hadn’t worn the habit, but that’s his all important fall back should things go wrong. He tucks the hem of the dress into the scrap of rope that serves as a belt and grins at the fence. That is not enough to stop Héctor Rivera! He leaps and grabs hold of the top of the fence, whipping a leg over and hopping down. A low growl rumbles behind him and Héctor realizes with a sinking stomach that the Flores’ must have gotten another dog. Héctor grins as big as he can, and turns, hoping the dog will see him as an amigo .

“ _Buen perrito_ ,” he says, reaching out to give it a pet. The dog lunges at him and Héctor yelps and scrambles back up the fence. As he struggles to get a leg over he is almost pulled right off by a sudden sharp tug. The dog has the dress in its mouth, pulling at it, growling.

“Let go! _Estupido_! Let go!” He gives a tug and the dress rips with a terrific sound that fills the night. Wincing, he loops one leg over the fence and yelps again when he sees Muerte has woken up, hackles raised as he comes closer. _Ayyy._

“I was just going!” he whispers frantically to his old enemy. “Comon’, _compadre_.”

Muerte snarls and begins to bark, loud rolling boofs made even louder by the dog on the other side.

“No! Shh! _Cállete_! _Cállete_!”

But it does not _cállete_ and instead charges at the fence from the other side. Héctor scrambles to stand on the narrow ledge, pinwheeling and nearly losing his balance as the big brown dog slams into the fence and then tries to jump it, scratching at the wood and barking at him. The other dog has started jumping to. He can feel it, the heavy paws slamming against the fence and making it vibrate. He needs to get out of here!

“Muerte! Lujosa! _Cállete_!” Comes a rough voice from the house, the dogs obey, going silent. Héctor winces as he sees the glow of a lantern in the doorway. Even though he knows that certain death is upon him, he can’t help but notice.

“Lujosa?” he murmurs to himself. He’d named that hell hound ‘fancy’? _Se_ _ñor_ Flores has a lot going on, and none of it good. The big man treads nearer to the fence, his face an angry scowl in the lantern light.

“What’s going on here?” he growls. Time for the fall back. Héctor pulls the dark veil over the lower half of his face in an attempt to hide it and says in a high voice.

“ _Santa Maria_ you startled me. I am just a passing _her **mana**_ here to bless the chickens.” He winces, hoping the man didn’t catch his voice dropping since he’s pretty sure _monjas_ don’t do that.

Even in the weak lantern light, Héctor can see the man scowl.

“Héctor.”

Caught.

Héctor grins, hoping he will seem small and too charming to break the bones of, and wiggles his fingers in a wave.

“ _Hola_.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

At least this is not the first time he’s ever been tied to a chair, Héctor thinks, staring at the heat shimmering off the empty plain in front of him. But it will be the first time he’s been tied to a chair and left in the blazing hot sun for hours, thirsty, hungry and faintly wishing he’d ended up as dog food instead. He is sure _Se_ _ñor_ Flores doesn’t intend to let him die out here. …Mostly sure. …Kinda sure. But he’s been wriggling a bit to loosen the rough ropes just in case, only he hasn’t gotten very far and it’s hard to do when he’s hungry.

Next time he’ll bring a bone, he thinks, renewing the struggle against the ropes, grunting and flexing his hands. Or maybe _Hermana_ Josefine’s tamales, that should glue their mouths together-- but then the poor dogs would have to taste them and no creature deserves that. His stomach grumbles and he sighs and slumps back , staring at the heat lines. If only he’d won that money instead.

Then again, he thinks with a grin, what had happened was worth more than any money in the world. He starts to hum ‘La Llorona’ to himself, closing his eyes as he tries to remember as much of what had happened that day as he can. It is still fresh as it only happened last week, every detail perfect. He thinks of that girl standing at the entrance to the alley, quiet and still, looking like some kind of vision the _monjas_ always talked about, the shawl draped over her head, her eyes dark, her mouth a thin solemn line.

He’d been shocked somhow to see her, thrown out of place. He had wanted to hear her voice. Just to get her to talk to him though he could tell by the way she had been looking down at him that she hadn’t liked him very much. Héctor is fine with that, because no one likes him very much. When he _had_ gotten her to talk, he’d known for _sure_ she didn’t like him very much. But still there was something about that, that look in her eyes, the way she spoke, he can’t explain it but it’s there nestled in the lining of his gut. And she’d warned him about the dung. She didn’t have to. A lot of people wouldn’t. But she had.

All of that had been interesting enough--and then she’d _sang_. She had a _good_ voice. Soft, but not breathy, quiet and then full of passion. Her dance-- _ay_ \-- her dance. Like she wasn’t even walking on the ground. He could only just follow along, his fingers playing on without him. He can still feel the softness of the shawl over his face, the smell of it, a little sweaty sure, but the distant scent of something sweet… He remembers the warm pressure of her hand over his eyes and the gentle weight of her chin on his head and …brushing against the back of his shoulders…

“Wow…” Women were soft! He’d always thought chichis would feel like bean bags or sacks of flour, jouncy and hard--but no… They had felt like heaven. Even the faintest brush had made him want to lean back fully against her, but he knew better than that.

And then-- Héctor grins--after all that-- after _Se_ _ñor_ Campos had asked her to sing, just as starry eyed as Héctor felt. She’d said no and walked off. _Se_ _ñor_ Campos hadn’t been happy but Héctor had laughed. He’d wanted to follow her but he couldn’t interrupt an exit like _that_.

He should have left sooner anyway, he thinks, opening his eyes and looking at his bare feet in the dirt, the huge chunk missing out of the dress. If he’d left he might have been able to borrow the guitar for a while. But _Se_ _ñor_ Campos had fairly ripped it out of his hands and told him to beat it. People did not know how to treat guitars. It’s really kind of sad.

Héctor sighs as the memory fades once more, too hot to move or think or do much more than stare at the ground. Death can come for him at any time now. He’s ready. He hears a faint rattle, like the sound of bones…and, a moment later, a cool hand lands on his shoulder. Héctor shrieks, nearly tipping sideways chair and all as he struggles to get away.

“ _Ahh_ no! I wasn’t serious!”

“And that’s your problem, _mijo_.”

Héctor twists to look up into the face of Padre de León and relaxes.

“You scared me.” Then grins. “Nice to see you, Padre! Read any good books lately?”

“Héctor…” Padre de León says in a quiet serious way and Héctor’s grin turns sheepish. He knows. He does. It’s bad what he tried to do…for the third time… and the Padre is pretty disappointed in him. He tries to be quiet and good as the priest unties the ropes, sighing in relief when they are gone.

“Here,” the padre says, handing him a hip flask.

“Ooh, tequila?”

“Héctor,” he says, stern. Héctor gives him a grin and untwists the cap to chug it down. It’s water, straight from the river, probably, cool and sweet. Though he’s so thirsty that even water from a mud puddle would taste like heaven.

“You need to stop this,” Padre de León says. “Tell me, why do you keep going after _Sen_ _õr_ Flores’ chickens?” Héctor tries to think of a good answer, an acceptable answer, one that won’t make Padre de León think he is terrible. There’s no good excuse he can think of, but then he looks at the torn dress and has a flash of inspiration.

“I don’t know…” he says with a shrug, making himself look repentant. “Maybeee…force of habit?” and he wiggles the ripped part of the black dress at him. Padre de León snorts and his mouth quirks up under his trimmed mustache. He straightens and coughs and his mouth is a flat line again.

“You are to apologize to _Se_ _ñor_ Flores,” the padre says in a stern voice.

“ _S_ _í_ , Padre,” Héctor says, getting up, stretching, and absently tucking the flask into his back pocket.

“And mean it,” the padre says, putting a hand on the back of his neck to guide him back to the house. They go slow and Héctor can’t help but notice that the padre is leaning more heavily on his cane than normal. He tries not to let this show in his voice.

“Of course, Padre.”

“Héctor…” there is a warning in the priest’s voice and Héctor holds up his hands.

“I promise I will apologize very seriously and mean it.”

Though he doesn’t think an apology is going to work anyway. _Se_ _ñor_ Flores is standing in his yard, burly arms crossed over his chest, the dogs panting on either side of him. _Se_ _ñora_ Flores stands in the shadowed doorway, looking carefully out. Héctor offers her a cheerful grin but is stopped by _Se_ _ñor_ Flores’ growl. Héctor folds his hands behind his back and looks at the ground.

“I am very sorry I tried to steal your chickens again,” _Bastardo_ , he adds silently.

“And…?” Padre de León prompts.

“And…” Héctor gropes for the rest of what he’s supposed to say. “…I …mean it?”

“And will never happen again,” Padre de León says.

“Oh right, _S_ _í_ , what he said,” Héctor says. Padre de León sighs. _Se_ _ñor_ Flores scowls.

“It had better not happen again. If I catch you again, I’ll feed you to the dogs. _Comprende_?”

“ _S_ _í, Señor_ ,” Héctor says, head down once more. The padre pats his back as if he’s done a good job, then guides Héctor to where Abuelita is waiting hitched to the cart. She is an old donkey and has seemed like an old donkey forever but now seems even older. She twists her long ears at him and flares her nostrils, as if waiting for a treat. He wishes he had one to give her.

He climbs onto the cart first, taking the padre’s cane to lay it on the floorboard before taking his hand and helping haul him up to sit on the seat. He grunts and hisses, stretching his leg out in front of him, then takes the reins.

“Hope to see you at mass tomorrow, Pedro!” Padre de León calls before clicking his tongue and flicking the reins. Abuelita’s ears lay back and she starts forward at an easy pace. The padre is silent as they head back toward the _Orfanato de Santa Cecilia_. Héctor watches him, his brow furrowed over his grey eyes which are so weird to see around here. Some people said one of his ancestors must have been a Conquistador or something like that. Héctor can’t help but find that pretty impressive, even if Padre León wouldn’t hurt a fly if it landed on him.

“You’re lucky that I was going to take lunch with the Sanchez’s. If I hadn’t been closer, the message might not have reached me in time.” He glances down at him. “This is the last time I help you in this matter, Héctor,” the Padre continues, sounding both solemn and sad and it makes Héctor want to squirm a bit. He went to shove his hands in his pockets but the dress is in the way so he frowns and toys with the ragged edge of it.

“ _Lo siento_ , Padre.”

“I don’t think you are…” the Padre says. “It’s not an excuse, even if you’re hungry.”

“ _S-s_ _í_ ,” Héctor says, and he is a bit. It’s hard to get enough to eat sometimes because there are so many new kids and not a lot to go around… but letting the priest think that-- that that was why… but could the man really understand what Héctor needed the chicken for?

“ _Se_ _ñor_ Flores will grow hungry too if you steal his chickens,” Padre de León says. “He has a wife to feed and a _ni_ _ño_ on the way, I’ve heard.”

“He doesn’t deserve her,” Héctor growls, folding his arms and spitting over the side of the cart. He’d seen _Se_ _ñora_ Flores at the market more than once with a shawl over her head to hide a bruise, and she was a quiet thing, scared as a rabbit, ready to bolt at the slightest raised voice from a man. Héctor felt sorry for her and whatever _ni_ _ño_ would come along. Even _Hermana_ Josefine isn’t that bad.

“ _S_ _í_ , I understand, but you’re not making it easier for her…”

Héctor stares, stomach turning over. He… he hadn’t thought…

“ _I’m_ the one that did it!”

“But you won't be the only one to suffer the consequence.”

Héctor sinks low. He wants to go to apologize to her but knows that he can’t go back now. Maybe if he sees her in the market he can give her a flower or sing her a song. But she doesn’t really know him and maybe doesn’t really like him because he keeps trying to steal her chickens.

“More than that,” Padre de León says. “You’ll be a man before you know it… and look like one too.”

He knows that. It’s a nice feeling. He already has one whisker….right under his lower lip. Why does the padre make it sound like a bad thing?

“People might excuse the antics of a _ni_ _ño_ , but a man must suffer greater consequences for his actions. The world is not kind these days. _Me entiendes_?”

“ _S_ _í_.” He understands. That’s already happened kind of with Ernesto. Or it feels to Héctor that the _monjas_ used to be a had been nicer to him before he’d gotten tall and his voice dropped. Then it seemed that they were doing whatever they could to shove him out the door. Héctor doesn’t understand why growing up has to be so hard. Shouldn’t Ernesto get the same affection no matter what? Ernesto is a good guy, even if no one seems to think so. He hadn’t wanted to steal the chickens. He had thought it was a bad idea. If Héctor had listened to him, maybe _Se_ _ñora_ Flores wouldn’t be so sad.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it right. Just don’t let it happen again.”

“I promise…”

“Good…” Padre de León reaches over and ruffles his hair. “You’re a good boy, Teto. Just a little thoughtless. Let’s try to work on that, hm?”

Héctor nods. He doesn’t feel like a good boy. He should tell Padre de León what he had been doing. That he’d been hoping to keep the stupid bird and sell the eggs to one day buy a guitar. But he knows that is selfish and the padre might wash his hands of him completely. Héctor couldn’t stand it if that happened…

But having a guitar is also important to him. For them. It’s like a burning need deep in his gut. Whenever he holds one… whenever he plays one… The world becomes…becomes magical! He knows Ernesto would feel the same way. So he just has to find some other way of getting one. One that doesn’t involve hurting someone else.

After a moment, Padre de León yawns.

“I’m going to fall asleep out here. You …wouldn’t want to play me a song, would you?”

“You brought your guitar?” Héctor says, sitting up, then feeling a sting of guilt. He can’t play now! Not so soon after…after what he’d done. He slinks down again. “I don’t think I should.”

“Go on,” Padre de León says. “Consider it payment for me having to come out all this way to get you.” He gestures with his head. “It’s in the back.”

Well, since he puts it that way… Héctor kneels over the seat, seeing the guitar case half hidden under some blankets. He tries to get at it but his arms are too short so he stands and bends as much as he can, trying to keep his balance. There is a slight tug at the back of his dress and he realizes the padre is trying to keep him from falling. He smiles, opens the guitar case and pulls out the instrument, turning to sit back down and cradle it against his chest while he admires it. It’s made of deep red wood with a turquoise ring around the sound hole. Santa Cecilia is full of guitars but Padre de León’s is the most beautiful one he’s ever seen. He strums a chord, noticing it’s not quite right and tunes it. Then strums it again. Ah. _Perfecto_.

But what to play? There is only one thing he can play in this situation. He starts to play a requiem he heard the padre play once, something nice and somber and religious. It’s beautiful too in its own way, but not something he enjoys playing that often. Padre de León groans.

“ _Ay_ , Teto, this is a payment, not a penance. Sing something with a little bounce to it.”

A little bounce? That he can do. He shifts in his seat, plucking out an aimless happy tune while he thinks. Then he grins. Oh, this will be good. He clears his throat and shifts his seat, then, with a sly glance at the padre, begins to play the opening notes, watching the man’s expression flatten.

“Wellll…” Héctor starts to sing.

“Héctor…” the padre says warningly.

“Everyone knows Juanita…” Héctor sings, bouncing his eyebrows.

“Héctor, no.”

“Her eyes are a different color…”

“Stop it right now.” But the corners of his mouth are twitching up again.

“Her teeth go out and her chin comes innn… And…”

“Héctor, I am a man of God.”

“Her chichis they drag on the floor.”

Padre de León laughs.

“You’ve never been close to a pair of chichis in your life.”

Oh, he has... But he isn’t about to tell the padre that.

“Her hair is like a brier…. Sing with me, Padre!”

“She stands in a bow legged stance~” the Padre sings in his baritone and Héctor laughs and harmonizes with him for the end.

“And if I weren’t so ugly… She’d possibly give me a chance!”

“ _Yipa_!” Héctor adds at the end then collapses laughing on the seat. Padre de León does too, the sound rich and musical.

“I don’t know where you got that song from, but promise me you won’t sing it anywhere near the _orphanato_.”

He’d made it up, not that anyone believes him. But it makes the guys at the _Cantina de Rio_ howl and it tickles him when they start singing it too. He nods, though, promising solemnly not to play it anywhere near where _Hermana_ Josefina can hear.

o.o.o.o.o.o

“Héctor… Hey, Teto, wake up…”

“Hm?” Héctor opens his eyes. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep but at least did without dropping the guitar. He stretches and yawns a jaw cracking yawn as he blearily watches the o _rfanato_ get closer. It’s really just an old house, standing just outside Santa Cecilia. It’s pretty run down, Héctor has come to realize, and kind of poor compared to other places, but it’s home-- and has been home for as long as he can remember. He wants to go to his mat and sleep until sundown.

Only he probably shouldn’t show up in a torn dress he’d stolen off the laundry line. It’s still a ways of a walk, but the entrance to the town is closer.

“Thanks for the ride, Padre,” Héctor says, leaning over the bench once more to put the guitar gently back. “I think I’m going to walk from here.”

“Walk?” Padre de León says, brow furrowing.

 _“Sí_! I’ve been sitting in that chair so long my legs feel like they’re going to fall off.” He hops off the cart as it’s still moving, backing toward the _orfanato._ Padre de León is raisin an eyebrow at him like he thinks Héctor is hiding something.

“If you say so, Héctor. But stay out of trouble now, I mean it. And come to mass tomorrow!”

“I promise, I promise. Just going to go straight home. Mass tomorrow, _s_ _í!_ _Gracias,_ Padre!” He waves until Padre de León is safely through the entrance then takes off the veil and struggles out of the dress, wadding it up. Ah, that feels so much better. He spreads his arms and lifts his head to the cool breeze-- then looks at the bundled up clothes and the soft grass and the gentle sky and shrugs. Why not? He flops on the ground, using the clothes as a pillow, and falls fast asleep.

When he wakes up he feels much better. Héctor takes a moment to appreciate the color of the sky, red and yellow now with sunset and a deep blue overhead, freckled with stars. He hums happily and gets up, hands in his pockets he heads back to the _orfanato._ The white building is pinkish in the sunset, some kids playing football outside. He waves to them but is too hungry to join. It’s probably after dinner by now which means he’ll have to sneak into the kitchen and steal some leftovers, if there are any-- so he makes a little turn around the house, and hears crying.

It doesn’t take him long to spot little Martín, sitting on the ground and bawling, looking red faced. He’s a new arrival, not even three, parents dead of something or other the _monjas_ don’t want to talk about. But that’s the story with everyone. He crouches beside the baby.

“What are you doing out here, eh? Did you sneak away?”

“Mamá!” Martín cries. “Papá!”

“Don’t worry about them,” Héctor says, picking the baby up with a grunt and setting him on his hip, using the tail of his shirt to wipe the dirt and tears from his face as best he can. “They’re okay…”

“Waaannnt!” Martín wails and Héctor shooshes him as best he can, rocking back and forth, and then grins and starts to dance gently, jouncing him as he goes, singing softly:

“ _De colores,_  
De colores se visten los campos  
en la primevera 

_De colores,_  
_De colores son los pajaritos_  
_Que vienen de fuera_  


_De colores_  
De colores son los pajaritos  
_Es el arco iris que vemos lucir_

In colors,  
In colors the fields are dressed  
In the springtime~

In colors,  
Colorful are the little birds  
That come from far away

In colors,  
In colors is the rainbow  
That we see shining~” 

It’s an old song, one _Hermana_ Josefine still likes to sing to the babies when they cry. She sings like she’s softly crying, but Héctor tries to make it happy, because it is a happy song! The world is beautiful and not so lonely as it seems. Martín seems to think so too, because the sobs fade to hiccups and soon he’s trying to sing along, inserting a _colores_ or _cachorros_ every now and again which makes Héctor laugh.

“I like _cachorros_ _,_ too!” And dogs of all ages…when they don’t try to chew him to pieces.

“When are Mamá and Papá home?” Martín says when the song has ended.

“Soon, _ni_ _ño,”_ Héctor tells him, adjusting him on his hip and heading toward the kitchen “Very soon.” It’s a lie, of course. But it’s a lie every kid is told here until they are old enough to understand the truth. The _monjas_ do it, even if they don’t believe in lying, but Héctor can understand. It’s okay to let a baby dream for a while. When the truth comes out it can be a little hard, depending on how it’s done. Sometimes kids find out from older and meaner ones. Sometimes the _monjas_ set them aside when they seem seven or eight or nine and tell them. But a lot of kids have figured that out already. Not that it makes it easy.

Héctor stops at the kitchen doorway, peeking in to see nearly blind _Hermana_ Teresa monitoring the washing up. There aren’t many leftovers to be had but Héctor goes around from plate to plate, snatching a little of this and a little of that and shoving it into his mouth. Just beyond _Hermana_ Teresa’s back is the store room. Open at the moment and tempting. Héctor jiggles a plate onto the floor, ducking into the shadows as it smashes and skirting past _Hermana_ Teresa as she goes to inspect the noise to zip into the store room.

“Hot,” Martín whines. “Dark!”

“I know shh. Here, help me with this orange.” It’s one of the only ones left in a little bowl on a splintery shelf, he hands it to Martín and helps him claw the soft rind away. Martín is a good kid and easily distracted so Héctor is pretty sure the ‘you’re an ‘ _hu_ _érfano, muchacho’,_ talk will go well. Héctor had been lucky with his. All he’d ever known was the _monjas_ so it hadn’t been much of a change. All he’d had from his parents, whoever they were, was the little basket he’d been found in an a note that just said Héctor Rivera. Sure he’d imagined they were dancers or singers or a royal couple that would come take him away on their flying banana, but when all was said and done he was pretty okay with it.

“There you go,” he says, taking the peel away from the nice fresh orange that makes his stomach rumble. He gives Martín a little segment. “Orange for you, orange for me--”

“ _Héctor_!” _Hermana_ Josefine growls, filling the doorway and casting them in shadow. Héctor backs up a step and grins sheepishly, wanting to wave but his hands are full at the moment.

“Orange you glad to see me, _Hermana?_ ” he says.

“Where have you been?” _Hermana_ Josifine says, hands on her hips. “Out all night!”

“Juust in the barn, sleeping. It was so hot inside I thought I was going to die.”

“All day?” she says, flatly. “You hide very well.”

“Not all day. I went into town. Looked for…people who needed work done!” Because he knew that he should. Soon he would be too old to stay here and would have to go somewhere else like Ernesto had.

“You?” she said, not believing. He grins.

“Come on, _Hermana_. I thought you’d be proud of me. I went to the butcher… the baker…the candlestick maker… all those.”

“Humph,” she says, then sighs. “I worry about you, Teto.”

 _Ay_ here it came. The 'you will be a man' speech. He’d heard it. He got it. But none of their plans were his plans.

“You--” she starts.

“Ah I think Martín is wet. Are you wet?”

“Wet,” Martín agrees and Héctor could kiss him.

“You stay here with _Hermana_ Josefine and I’ll get you a fresh thingy!” he says, pushing the baby into her arms, knowing she’d take him.

“Héctor!” she snaps.

“Be right back!” He slips out into the hallway, breaking into a jog as _Hermana_ Josefine calls after him:

“You’d better be telling the truth, Héctor! Even heaven won’t help you if you’re chicken stealing again.” And then a louder bellow as if to make sure he heard: “You’re to stay in your room tonight!”

“ _Ay_ I haven’t even _stolen_ one yet,” he mutters to himself, rolling his eyes. It doesn’t seem fair that he should get in trouble for failing to do it. It would feel much better if he’d gotten a chicken and a few eggs and _then_ got in trouble. But then again… _Se_ _ñora_ Flores would have had a hard time. And Padre de León would be even more disappointed in him.

Okay! Héctor thinks. No more being thoughtless. He will turn himself around and be the good boy that Padre de León expects him to be. He eats another slice of orange, and goes into the room he shares with six others, there are mats and clothes and toys everywhere. He misses when Ernesto was here. They would play cards and sing and talk about their dreams at night in whispers. But Ernesto is eighteen now and living on a farm not too far away. The shit farm, or so they’d called it, because when the wind was right it would blow the smell of manure right into the room.

Héctor sighs and rests his elbows on the windowsill, watching the sunset. Ernesto hates it there, Héctor knows. He would hate it too. It’s hard work, he’d tried it once. Getting super early and picking things or threshing things or planting things or whatever in the hot hot sun which just blanks everything out of your mind. But after work is kind of fun where everyone gathers around a trestle table or two and eat and drink and laugh and play music. And, in fact they were probably coming back from the fields right now.

Of course, Héctor had promised to keep out of trouble _Hermana_ Josefine told him to stay, he should obey her. Buuuut where's the harm in seeing Ernesto? After all, Padre de León can hardly be mad at him for visiting an _amigo_ right? Héctor crams the rest of the orange in his mouth and slips out the window, then immediately flattens himself against the wall as he hears _Hermana_ Josefine’s voice.

“And another thing,” she says. Then: “Héctor? _Héctor!_ _”_

He waits until he’s sure she’s gone, even daring a peek over the windowsill. The coast is clear. He whoops to himself, then claps a hand over his mouth and hurries toward the farm.

o.o.o.o.o.o

By the time Héctor arrives, it’s twilight but it seems like he came at a good time anyway. Lanterns have been lit and the farm hands are around the table, drinking and laughing and eating something that smells delicious. The men greet him happily with “Héctor!” or “Hey, _chamaco!_ _”_ He doesn’t know all their names but he likes these guys. They seem pretty fun. The sound of a guitar fills the air and he sighs and dances to it a little, miming the fingering with an imaginary guitar of his own.

“Nice playing, _Se_ _ñor_ José!” he calls.

“No way,” José says. “Whenever I lend you my guitar, something bad happens.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Héctor says.

“And you’re not going to,” José says, holding the guitar close to his body. Héctor rolls his eyes. Some people are so untrusting.

“Where’s Ernesto?” he asks some bald guy he keeps forgetting the name of. Then, watching him pour some drink into a cup adds: “Can I have some of that?”

“Who? Oh... The new kid... Where he usually is,” the man says with an eyeroll, gesturing vaguely. “But sure, _chamaco_ , you got a cup?”

“Uh…” No. No! No wait. He pats around himself, pulling the Padre de León’s flask from his back pocket. That’ll work. The bald guy chuckles and pours it in his flask.

“Try to cheer him up, eh? Give him a sip of that.”

“Will do!” He makes his way over to where Ernesto is sitting by himself under a tree, shoulders slumped, old blue bandanna loose about his neck, staring at his hands. _Ay_ , he’s in a mood again. Héctor sighs, snagging a half eaten ear of maize from where it’s just laying in the grass along the way. He wipes it on his pants and takes a bite. Mm. _Delicioso_.

“Hey, Ernesto, want some?”

Ernesto makes a face. “Don’t eat that, Héctor, it was on the ground!”

“So? The grass is clean.” He plops by him and takes a swig from, the flask, the bright liquor spilling down his throat and making him want to gag at the taste of it. But he’s an expert at it now and so only coughs a little and then smiles as he feels the tendrils of warmth curling through him. “Ahh. Good stuff. Have some, _amigo_.” He hands the flask over and takes another bite of the corn while Ernesto makes a face.

Héctor shrugs. His loss.

Ernesto takes a swig, a long swig, and then slumps again, looking at his hands. Héctor can’t entirely blame him for this mood. It was a summer night, kind of like this one, when Ernesto had shown up at the _orfanato._ Héctor didn’t remember too much of that time because he had been just a _ni_ _ño pequeño,_ but Ernesto’s arrival had been strange. Here he was, some kid that was on the verge of becoming a big kid, in nice clothes and a _carpet bag_ and _real_ shoes that were closed all the way around and made of leather. He had thought only the _monjas_ wore shoes. He remembered liking the way they looked in the evening light. Padre de León, new then, and a bit scary with his tallness and his limp, had told them all to take care of Ernesto who would be staying with them just a few days and needed to be treated kindly.

At first _everyone_ wanted to talk with Ernesto, especially the older kids. He was interesting. He looked rich. He was one of the only ones who could say for sure where he was born, right in town, in Santa Cecilia. He wasn’t even an _orfanato!_ He used to say that he would go all the way around the world one day with his _T_ _ío_ Alberto who lived in Mexico City. But then… days turned into a week, then two… and one day _Hermana_ Josefine had taken Ernesto aside for the ‘ _hu_ _érfano, muchacho’_ talk. Héctor had listened in under the window like he usually did and couldn’t remember much other than talk of influenza and debts-- but letters had been written to his _T_ _ío_ … and a month and months and a year and no _T_ _ío_ had ever come or written back. Ernesto had gone quiet, gone sad, pulled into himself. Héctor had done his best to cheer him up, giving him frogs and singing him songs and somehow or another they’d become the best of _amigos_.

Héctor begins to hum along with whatever José is playing, watching the moon peeking over the horizon. Ernesto takes another swig and sighs another long sigh. Héctor frowns and leans back on the tree, hands behind his head. There has to be _something_ he can do to cheer Ernesto up.

“How did the chicken stealing go,” Ernesto asks. Héctor winces.

“Ehhh welll not so great.”

“I told you it wasn’t a good idea,” Ernesto says. “You need to stop stealing, _amigo_.”

“I _didn_ _’t_ steal it!” Why were people being so picky about that? “Anyway, you didn’t think trying to play for the revolutionaries as a good idea but I managed it! And then--” he smiles, sighs. “La--”

“If you bring up La Llorona one more time I’m going to choke you to death on that corn cob.”

“Hey, _muchacho_ , it was magical!”

Ernesto snorts, taking another long drink. He’s going to go through _all_ of it at this rate and Héctor doesn’t have the heart to take it back from him.

“You don’t have a shot with her, you know that.”

“A shot?”

“To be with her, _idiota_. If she’s as pretty as you say she is, she’s not going to go for a _ni_ _ño_ who looks twelve.”

“I don’t look twelve. I have this!” He points at the whisker under his lip. It is right there! Plain as day. She must have noticed it. “And my voice is dropping like dog _cajones_. Listen.” He clears his throat and then deliberately squeaks: “ _Buenos Dias, Se_ _ñorita~!_ ”

Ernesto is caught mid drink and chokes a bit before laughing a bit and giving him a shove. Héctor grins then frowns as the laughter fades from his friend’s face and he slumps again, running a hand through his thick dark hair. Then he taps Héctor’s shoulder with his knuckles.

“Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve got something to tell you.”

That doesn’t sound good… Not the way he’s saying it anyway. Héctor nods and gets up, tossing the corn cob in the taller grass. His eyes light on an unattended bottle of _mezcal_ lying by one of the trestle tables… and since he doesn’t think Ernesto is going to return the flask any time soon…

“ _Uno momento_.” He snags it and then saunters off quickly with Ernesto before it can be missed. It’s not a big problem, it’s only half full after all. Ernesto gives him a look but says nothing, shaking his head. Okay, it’s bad. Héctor knows this. It’s not his booze and he should probably put it back-- and he will after he has a sip or two from it. New leaf turning over is tomorrow, isn’t it? So tonight he doesn’t have to worry so much. He unscrews it and takes a sip.

"I’ve decided to join the revolutionaries,” Ernesto says. Héctor chokes, then flinches as the burning sensation goes up his nose but he can do nothing but bend with his hands on his knees, coughing while Ernesto thumps his back.

“ _What_?” he says when he can breathe again, voice sounding like a frog. “You can’t do that, you’ll _die!_ ”

“I won’t die,” Ernesto says, rubbing his neck as if unsure, but then his face hardens and he shakes his head. “Anyway, it will be a good chance to get out and see the world.”

“You can do that when we become--”

“Bah!” Ernesto flaps a hand as if shooing the idea away and finishes off the flask.

“--when we become _m_ _úsicos,”_ Héctor finishes.

“We’re not going to become _m_ _úsicos,_ Héctor,” Ernesto says, voice sharp. “Give it up.”

“Sure we are!” He moves to walk backwards in front of him, trying to meet his eyes, to make him _believe_. “It’s a slow start but--”

“We _can_ _’t,_ ” Ernesto snaps.

“We _can!_ _”_ Héctor replies, determined to make him see.

“You can’t even get a guitar,” Ernesto says. “You couldn’t even win that competition--”

Well that _is_ true. Sort of… But…But anyway that doesn’t matter.

“Okay fine. Maybe I didn’t. But maybe it wasn’t my moment!”

“ _Dios mio,_ Héctor,” Ernesto says, rolling his eyes and moving around him. Héctor hurries to catch up.

“I’m telling you! One day our moment will come…”

“It won’t--”

“..And when it does we’ll pounce!”

“Héctor…”

“…Like a _gato_ on a _rat_ _ón_ and then--!”

Ernesto turns to him, gripping him by the shoulders and giving him a little shake.

“Listen, _amigo_ , _listen_ for once in your life,” he says. “I don’t have time to wait for a moment. Every day I wake up here and I hurt, I _hurt,_ Héctor. Every part of me aches. I am tired of the sun. I am tired of the work. I am tired of being up to my elbows in _shit_ every day…” He sighs and drops his hands, putting them in his pockets. “And even if you’re right. Even if this ‘magical’ moment comes I--” He looks away, turns away, kicks a clump of grass, shoulders hunched. “ _I_ can’t do it.”

“Of course you can! You just--”

“No, listen, I _can_ _’t_ ,” Ernesto says, clutching a hand at his own chest as if trying to grab out his heart. “The other night-- They wanted me to sing. Those guys finally noticed me and wanted to hear me and-- I froze. I couldn’t move not a single muscle. I just _stared_ at them, Héctor. They looked at me like I was the biggest _idiota_ in the world. How can I be a _m_ _úsico_ if I can’t even--” he makes a gesture. “ _Music_.”

 _Ay._ Héctor winces. That must have hurt. But he doesn’t get it. Freezing up and being embarrassed is just a part of life. Once it’s over, it’s over and nothing to be ashamed about. As much as Ernesto is his best friend, he doesn’t understand the way he thinks sometimes. Even so, he’s not going to give up on him.

“Okay… fine. But, hey…” He grins. “Why not give them one song before you go, eh?”

“Did you not hear _anything_ I just said?” Ernesto snaps. “I can’t--”

“ _S_ _í_ , _s_ _í,_ I get it. But listen, _compadre_ , maybe you’ll do fine tonight and maybe--” He holds up his hands as Ernesto starts to talk. “--Maybe you won’t.” He shrugs. “And if you’re going to join the revolutionaries, what does it matter? You’ll be too busy roaming the world and having adventures and picking up _se_ _ñoritas_ to remember it! They probably won’t even remember you once you’ve gone so what could it hurt?”

Ernesto makes a noise between his thinned lips. He’s listening, anyway, Héctor can tell. Even if he doesn’t agree yet. There has to be a way to loosen him up. One look at the bottle and Héctor knows how. He takes three big gulps of it himself, saying goodbye to that treat with a warm tingly shudder, and hands it to Ernesto.

“I’ll help you, here, finish this off.”

“It’s not going to work.”

“ _Ay,_ Ernesto just stop whining and give it a chance,” Héctor says, rolling his eyes. “Listen if it comes time and you can’t sing _I_ _’ll_ sing and no one will know you were going to.” He gestures. “Now drink.”

Ernesto throws back his head and chugs it down all in one go, wiping his mouth with his wrist.

“Great! Now shake it off!” He gives an example, flailing his arms, getting all the energy loose from under his skin, his heart surging. Ernesto does, too, though not as vigorously and it may have just been the booze.

“Annnd _grito_ your heart out, _muchacho_.”

“I’m not going to _grito_ ,” Ernesto says.

“Aw, come on. Just a small one!”

“ _You grito_.”

“ _Ay,_ fine.” Héctor takes a deep breath straight from his gut, and then cupping his hands around his mouth bellows: “ _Aaayyy yiiii yihaaaaa!_ ” That feels _good._ He’s a bit giddy and light headed and throws back his head and howls like a dog. To his surprise, Ernesto joins in and he laughs, seeing his friend’s face flush in the moonlight. It’s time, he grabs Ernesto’s arm and tugs him back to where the men are sitting.

“Come on! While you’ve got it in you! Let’s sing! Pretend you’re the greatest singer in the world, doing them a big favor.”

“B-but, what should I sing?”

“Um…” He thinks. “Juanita! Everyone loves that one.”

“Are you sure?” Ernesto asks.

“ _S_ _í!_ Trust me!” They come back into the clearing and he makes Ernesto stop not far from the trestle tables, patting his shoulders. “I believe in you, _compadre_.” Ah, but in order to give Ernesto a chance, he had to accompany him. Give him a lead in and give him time to get comfortable with singing in front of people. Which means… He glances at _Se_ _ñor_ José who seems to have finished with his guitar for now. Putting on his most winning smile, Héctor approaches the man.

“No!” José says, clutching the guitar to him. “Don’t even think it.”

“ _Por favor, Se_ _ñor!_ ” Héctor says, clapping his hands in front of him like prayer. “I won’t even go anywhere with it. Just over there with Ernesto. Just one song. I promise. And then I’ll never ask again.”

José eyes him and Héctor knows he almost has him.

“Never again?” the man asks.

“Never ever ever. I promise.”

“Fine…” José holds up his old battered guitar. “But if anything happens to it I’m going to skin you alive.”

“It’ll be perfectly safe.” He grabs the guitar and sets the strap around him just to make sure. As he turns back to Ernesto the world spins a bit and his stomach does too. Maybe… a bit too much _mezca_ , but he is fine. He makes his way back to Ernesto and, to give him a bit more time since he’s sweating and pulling at his collar, plays a random tune, moving in front of him a moment to give him a big grin and a nod.

“Remember, _amigo,_ ” he whispers. “Everyone is drunk and no one cares. You are a _mucho_ big star here to entertain them. So just give a big smile, like you mean it and sing from right here.” He whaps himself in the gut, then wishes he hadn’t done that because things stir again. Stir a lot. Didn’t stop stirring.

He turns to face the group of men again, feeling dizzy as he place the opening to Juanita, his fingers knowing where to go thankfully because his mind does not.

“Well, everyone knows Juanita….” Ernesto starts, voice soft and trembling a little, but Héctor is proud. “Her eyes are two different colors…”

Then a soft wind blows in, bringing with it the scent of manure and Héctor is on the ground, retching.

“My guitar!” José wails. Héctor wants to apologize but opening his mouth just seems to make one thing happen. After a moment he feels Ernesto patting his back gently.

 _“_ Thanks for trying, _amigo_ ,” he murmurs. It sounds like he’s giving up for good. Héctor won’t let him. Music is important. They can do it! They can look forward to a world beyond shit farms and soldiers and whatever else. He wants to tell him this, and he will!

Once he stops wanting to die.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Héctor wends his way through the bustling market of Santa Cecilia, the bundle of Ernesto’s things bouncing against his back, guts tight with worry. It’s a new feeling for him and he’s not sure what to do with it. It’s not the sharp ‘going to get caught’ feeling or even the ‘what will happen if I get caught’ feeling, but something more than that. Something that makes it a little hard to breathe. Any other times he would be in and out of bars and cantinas and shops, seeing what was going on; or trying to bargain sweets from vendors or hanging out in the plaza and listening to the _m_ _úsicos_ but today-- he needs to see the Padre.

It doesn’t matter much that Padre de León will be annoyed with him for missing mass. He hadn’t meant to. Well, okay, that is a lie, he had, but not because he was being disobedient. They had just woken up that Sunday with a _grande_ hangover the size of Santa Cecilia itself. Ernesto had recovered easily but Héctor hadn’t been able to move except for wanting to puke-- only he’d had nothing to bring up. After that neither of them had wanted to do much so they cheated at poker with each other and sang a bit-- but Ernesto hadn’t said anything about that night and Héctor hadn’t wanted to ask.

Then this morning, he was gone. None of the men had seen him but they’d said that boys like Ernesto ran off all the time and that if Héctor had found him, he probably wouldn’t be welcomed back. Héctor had wanted to take off there and then to find him, but he knew Ernesto liked his clothes and wouldn’t want them to be thrown away. So he’d wrapped them all up in the ratty blanket and tied that around his shoulders. It is hot and scratchy and makes him sweat but he doesn’t care.

Maybe it’s a lie, though, he thinks, as he turns down the side street that is a shortcut to the church. Maybe they will take him back. Or maybe Ernesto can find some other thing to do that won’t be so bad. Héctor should probably find work, too. He doesn’t know what, but something. He’s waited too long, he thinks. Not done enough. Been an _idiota_ to drink that much and ruin Ernesto’s big moment. Some _amigo._

Anyway, Padre de León will know what to do about it. He knows everything and he knows everyone. The padre was the one who had found Ernesto the place on that farm and maybe he’ll be able to find another place for him and Héctor, too. As he gets closer to the church, he can’t help but notice a strange tension in the air. The few people that linger nearby seem tense and talk in low voices. Not even the old _abuelos_ who play checkers across the street are out and that says something. Though _what_ it says, Héctor isn’t sure.

There’s more to frown about as he sees the church doors closed, despite the damp heat of the day and a couple of revolutionaries he only knows by sight lounging around outside it. He spots the one with scruffy black hair that isn’t as annoyed with him usually and waves.

“What’s going on? Is the head honcho here?”

Scruffy squints at him. “Can’t tell you that, _chamaco._ Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Héctor says with a shrug, trying to sound like he really doesn’t care-- but now he wonders if the revolutionaries are here, maybe Ernesto will be too. Maybe he’s already joined up. The thought makes a cold shiver go down his spine.

“Well you can stay curious,” Scruffy says, giving him a brown tinged grin. “Unless you want to join up.”

“I was just looking for the Padre.”

“Nosy brat, get lost, eh?,” Scruffy says, turning his head to spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the h. “ And stay close to home. There’s a storm brewing.”

“Ok, _gracias, gracias_ ,” Héctor says, smiling as cheerfully as he can. Scruffy seems to get even more suspicious, his eyes narrowing even more, but then he sneezes and Héctor fights a sigh of relief. He walks around the church instead, sneaking in the back way. As he enters the cool quiet of the church he hears voices further on in the sanctuary, muffled, though if he listens close he might be able to understand but there are more important things. He checks the padre’s office, but it’s empty. Even the guitar is gone which means he’s either visiting or at home. He hopes it’s home. Otherwise Héctor knows he won’t be able to find him in time. Ernesto’s bundle is suddenly too hot so he unties it and stuffs it under the padre’s desk, knowing it will be safe there. He heads toward the outside door.

“You _can_ _’t_ leave!”

Héctor freezes, even his heart seeming to still in his chest. That was Padre de León’s voice, angrier than Héctor had ever heard him. Was he talking to Ernesto? Hardly daring to believe it, Héctor creeps closer to the sanctuary, pushing the heavy wooden door open a crack and peering in. Padre de León is talking to _Se_ _ñor_ Campos, who has a flat, scary expression. The candlelight flickers off the bullets in his bandolier. There is a groan off to the side and, shifting, Héctor can see a man, half sprawled on the floor, propped up mostly by the alter, grey shirt dark with blood. Héctor can smell it now over the melting wax and presses his sleeve under his nose, wondering about the poor man.

“We will do what we can, Padre,” _Se_ _ñor_ Campos says. “But there is much at stake.”

Padre de León looks furious about this, jaw working, pale eyes blazing. Héctor doesn’t want to know what the padre will do if he finds him snooping. He should leave now and wait for him in the office.

“If the _Federales_ should come to Santa Cecilia it will be a disaster. You remember what happened to--” Padre de León is saying just as Héctor starts to pull the door closed. It gives a loud snapping creak creak and Héctor winces. .

“Whose there?” _Se_ _ñor_ Campos snaps and in a flash has a pistol in hand, pointed right at him. Héctor holds up his hands.

“It’s just me! Just me!”

If he wasn’t afraid he’d get shot, he’d find their sudden matching expressions almost funny.

“What are you doing here, _chamaco_?” _Se_ _ñor_ Campos says as someone opens the door and Héctor can fully see the wounded man. There’s blood trailing out of the corners of his mouth now, and the doctor leaning over him, fingers flecked with red.

“Héctor,” Padre de León says and Héctor realizes he’s been spoken to.

“Um… I needed-- needed to see you padre…”

“I don’t have time just now,” Padre de León says, limping over to him and taking him by the shoulder, shutting the door behind him. Then he frowns deeply. “Did you stop by the _orphanato?_ _”_

“No, I was at the shi-- ah-- the farm, with Ernesto.”

“Ah,” the padre says, something like a sigh going through him. “Good, well--”

“He’s gone, Padre,” Héctor says, knowing he’s about to be turned away. “Just disappeared. He said he was going to--” But he doesn’t want to say ‘join the revolutionaries’ like it was a bad thing. Not where _Se_ _ñor_ Campos can hear. “--to… to go somewhere… Have you seen him?”

Padre de León really does sigh this time, ruffling his hair with a cool hand.

“No. Don’t worry about Ernesto right now.”

“But--!”

“We’ll talk about everything later, I promise. Go wait for me at the clergy house. I’ll be there soon.”

“O-okay…” Héctor says. He doesn’t like it, but at least Padre de León definitely will talk with him. He starts out and then the padre calls over his shoulder.

“Héctor…”

“ _S_ _í?_ ”

The padre hesitates, hand flexing around his cane, then:

“There’s no need to worry anyone,” he says, giving Héctor a look with his tired gray eyes that Héctor tries to understand. “ _Me entiendes_?”

“ _S_ _í_.” But he doesn’t. Not really. He hurries back outside, wincing at the sudden brightness, and walks the short way to the clergy house. It’s an interesting building. One of the only of its kind in Santa Cecilia. Padre de León had told him it was built on a European design, whatever that meant. Héctor usually liked to just stand back and look at the thing, but now he doesn’t like it at all. It feels imposing with staring glass eyes and nothing behind them. He skirts around to the back of the house again, if only because the padre’s housekeeper, _T_ _ía_ María doesn’t seem to like him much.

It’s a hot day, so the windows are open and he doesn’t even have to jimmy the latch to get into one of the sitting rooms. There are two in this place but this one is his favorite. The sofa is soft and comfy and the pale white of a cloud, today with a scrap of blue cloth caught between the cushion and the back an odd afterthought, like a stray bit of sky. The chairs are comfy too, and the wood floor is smooth and cool under his feet. His favorite part is the small mirror with a silver frame and the guitar that usually sits in front of it, and is there now.

Héctor sits on the edge of the sofa, fingers laced, staring at the guitar; the warm red-brown wood, the turquoise, the strings and fretboard which look so tempting. He wants to play it. His hands are hungry for it. His ears are thirsty. The knot in his stomach is twisting and turning with nowhere to go. He knows he shouldn’t touch it. Padre de León had told him to always ask for permission first.

But… he has to. He _has_ to. Padre de León can be mad at him all he wants, but everything in Héctor _needs_ it. He rises, crosses the room, hesitates and then takes it from its stand, stepping back slowly to sit on the sofa and resting the guitar on his knees. He takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes, smelling it, breathing it in, the deep wood, the sharp tones-- He cradles it to his chest, pressing the strings against the fret board, the bite of them against his skin faint and familiar. After a moment, he starts to play, no tune in particular. Instead he lets the worry and sadness and fear unwind in his gut to his fingers to the strings, the sound filling the room and singing back to him.

He can’t help but think of Ernesto, lying against the alter, mouth trailing blood. Of being…without.He’d never lost anyone before. Not really. Kids had come and went from the _orphanato_. Sometimes they died and sometimes they got too old. Héctor had been sad to see them go but they hadn’t been _his_. Ernesto was his. His _amigo._ Maybe even his _hermano._ He’d started to realize what it had felt like back when Ernesto went to the shit farm. Suddenly there was this big Ernesto shaped hole in his life. And if Ernesto left with the revolutionaries… even if he didn’t die-- he wouldn’t be there. Héctor would have nowhere to sneak off to. No one to sing with. No one to cheat at cards with.

He plays that song, hoping Ernesto can hear it somehow wherever he is, that he understands. Trying to promise him just through hope and music that he _will_ get them a guitar one day and after that, there will be nothing to worry about. They can be _m_ _úsicos_. They can sing and people will listen and laugh and maybe cry or sing along. They will see the world and the world will see them.

Héctor slowly opens his eyes, and then straightens. La Llorona is watching him from the mirror. It feels like magic. Like she’s some kind of weird spirit or ghost, called to the sound of music. It’s just like before only this time she has no shawl and her dress is dark blue. She is watching him with that same dark eyed expression, arms folded, seeming disapproving, but she’s also leaning in the doorway like she’s listening. Héctor feels like he can hardly breathe as he watches her eyes, caught in them. There’s a new feeling among the others, like a single small flower in a field. The melody changes, too, softer, full of wonder, floating light and soft. She tilts her head to the side, as if asking a question and he grins a little, slipping into La Llorona. Her eyes widen a bit and then she lifts her chin, pulling away from the door and putting her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing here, _bandito_?” She sounds annoyed, but maybe she always sounds that way. It doesn’t bother him a bit. He grins.

“What are _you_ doing here, La Llorona?”

Her eyes darken and her jaw tightens.

“Don’t call me that.”

It seems like a sore spot and he doesn’t want to press it so he grins and shrugs apologetically.

“What’s your name?” he asks. She watches him down her nose.

“What are you doing here?” she says again.

“Waiting for the Padre. You?”

“I work here.”

“Really?” That’s a surprise.” What about _T_ _ía_ María?”

“She does, too.”

Ouch. He feels sorry for La Llorona. That must be rough. He can’t imagine being stuck with _T_ _ía_ María that long. He doesn’t know what to say after that, so he just lets his fingers speak for him over the strings, watching her in the mirror. She starts to relax, her head drops a little, her hands leave her hips. He wonders, if he picks up the tune, will she dance?

A door closes somewhere and takes her attention, so she looks over her shoulder. He doesn’t mind. It’s a nice look. And then her attention is back on him and his fingers fumble a little over the strings, though he just adds it as a little bridge to what he was playing, not a mistake, just an odd sort of interruption.

“Are you hungry?” she says and his stomach answers for him. He grins a little sheepishly.

“ _S_ _í._ ”

“Come on.”

She turns away from the door. Héctor scrambles to get up and follow her. It’s almost a shock to see her really there in the hallway and not just in the mirror. He can hear the rustle of her skirt and who knew necks could be so interesting? The way it sloped down into her shoulders, how it stood out against her dark hair, small loose strands falling against it. A weird feeling is going through him. One not even a guitar could explain.

“What’s your name?” he asks again, feeling a little breathless. She says nothing as she leads him down a short stairwell. “I’ll tell you mine.”

“I know yours,” she says. “Héctor.”

He really wishes she did not know his name, suddenly, because her saying it sends another little something through him and makes him shudder all over. He has to stop where he is and get it out, shaking himself out all over and his fingers twitching to go over the strings, but without a tune to play. She continues ahead he closes his eyes, breathing out, trying to get his insides to settle down.

“What are you getting into?” she says, and he wishes he knew. “I told you no. This may be a house but it isn’t ours.”

“It’s not fair!” a kid says.

“I know, Filipe, but one day it will be. I promise.” And then: “Are you coming, _bandito_?”

Oh, right. He relaxes a little. _Bandito_ is a little less confusing to hear. He starts to play again to relieve the tension as he makes his way to the kitchen. Inside it is even more beautiful. There is a basket of fruit on the table, and tortillas being prepared with peppers and greens and onions and the smell of meat frying and a big round wheel of cheese that nearly makes him drool.

“Who is that?” asks the kid and Héctor blinks, remembering there are others here. There’s actually two kids, both thin and kind of squinty around the eyes. Both were wearing surprisingly clean and neat clothes but one had a smudge of dirt on his collar.

“Is it Héctor?” said the smudged dirt one, surprising him.

“ _S_ _í,_ ” she says. He laughs.

“How do you know my name?”

“ _T_ _ía_ María,” the boys say in unison. Oh… Héctor’s smile fades. But then returns. Hey at least they heard of him.

“Oscar,” she says, gesturing to the boy with the smudged collar. “Filipe.”

“And you?” Héctor asks with a grin. She looks at him down her nose, then the corners of her mouth lift and she says:

“No.” Before turning to the stove once more. He can’t help but grin. There’s something about that no. He doesn’t know what it is but every time he hears it, it makes him want to laugh. He sets the guitar carefully against the wall and then goes to cut himself a piece of cheese, his stomach rumbling in his ears.

“How come he gets to get what he wants?” Filipe says.

“Because he’s a guest,” she says, turning to give Héctor a look that says he better be. He is! And he doesn’t even have to feel guilty about it. He cuts some for the boys, too.

“Really?” Filipe says.

“For us?” Oscar says.

“Hey, as a guest, I say, dig in!” Héctor says, shoving the cheese in his mouth. Mmm It’s so good. Like heaven. “ _Ay comoer, muchachos!_ ” he says, or tries to say, though it’s hard to do with a mouthful of cheese. La Llorona glares at him, her lips pressed in a thin line, but then the twins woop and start eating and her expression softens. It’s interesting, small, just a slight lift of the corner of her mouth. She glances at him, seeming annoyed and he looks away, stealing another slice of cheese before going over to where the rest of it is laid out. Mmmm. Tacos.

Héctor grabs a tortilla, filling it up and stops when he gets to the peppers. They are thin slices of deep red and suddenly he’s reminded of that man against the alter, the blood on his mouth, on the doctor’s hands. He shivers, suddenly feeling a little queasy. It’ll be fine, he thinks, trying to convince himself. Ernesto wouldn’t join up with the revolutionaries. He wouldn’t want to get shot or whatever had happened to that guy. He’s smart and too smart to get himself into a situation like that. …Isn’t he?

“ _Bandito_?” she says and he realizes he’s staring. He smiles.

“ _Nada_.” And skips the peppers over a double handful of onions--then snatches some of the meat before she can bat his hands away. He sits at the table and crams the delicious food in his mouth and tries not to think so much. Then he gets another tortilla and bigger slice ofe cheese.

“You eat fast,” Filipe says.

“ _Really_ fast,” Oscar adds.

He waggles his eyebrows at them and tries to think of something funny to say-- when suddenly there are shouts and the sounds of thunder outside. No, not thunder-- hoofbeats. La Llorona goes to stand by the window, her arms folded against her waist.

“They’re leaving?”

Héctor stuffs the cheese in his mouth and goes to peer around her since he can’t really see over her shoulder. At first there is nothing, but then he sees three revolutionaries on their dusty horses, galloping through the streets.

“ _Qu_ _ítate! Quítate!_ ” one shouts as a man scrambles to get out of the way of the charging horse. La Llorona clicks her tongue. Héctor can only stare. A storm is brewing…even if above the town the sky is the same dusty blue. Suddenly he jolts as he remembers another scrap of blue, caught in the sofa. He darts back to the parlor. It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Padre de León had said he hadn’t seen Ernesto. So it must be something else, belong to someone else. He leans over the sofa, wheezing as it digs into his stomach, and pulls out the tired blue bandanna.

The front door opens and the padre calls: “Héctor?”

Héctor can only stare at the thing, cold fear curdling in his gut.

“Héctor?” the padre says again and he starts, cramming the bandanna into his pocket before going out in the hall to meet him. He looks different, his hair wild, his face drawn tight and pale. He gives Héctor a smile that he doesn’t mean.

“There you are.” He puts his hands on Héctor’s shoulders. “Listen, _miho_ , I don’t have time to explain just now, but I need you to stay here for the night, okay? Don’t return to the _orfanato_ under any cir--”

“Did you see Ernesto,” Héctor says. The padre’s mouth tightens.

“Héctor…” he says, as if about to scold him, but stops and pales even further when Héctor shows him the bandanna.

“Did he join the revolutionaries? Did he?” Is he out there in the storm? The padre closes his eyes as if he’s in pain which seems answer enough.

“Teto, Ernesto is a man grown and--”

Héctor darts around him, heading for the door. He can’t keep up with horses but there’s only one road out of town so if he runs fast enough he can--. Padre de León grabs his arm tight.

“Let go!” Héctor snaps, trying to tug free. He can’t! He doesn’t have the _time_!

“Stop, Héctor, listen!” the padre says. “Just calm down--”

“No!” He wrenches his arm away as hard as he can, wincing as the padre stumbles and falls, wanting to help him, but he shakes his head and turns to bolt out into the street, the padre calling his name. He dashes through Santa Cecilia at a dead run, his heart jamming in his ribs. He sees that vision again. Of Ernesto lying there, bleeding everywhere. No one coming to help him though. No doctor to stain his fingers red. Just his _amigo_ , his _hermano,_ dying alone. Tears sting his eyes but he scrubs them away with his sleeve, gritting his teeth. He won’t let it happen. He won’t. He _won_ _’t._

He runs as hard as he can, until blood roars in his ears and he can barely suck air into his stinging lungs. He stumbles to a stop just outside of Santa Cecilia, panting, sweat dripping down his face. The _orfanato_ rises in the distance, just off to his left. He stares at the tired white walls and it suddenly occurs to him that the revolutionaries might think he’s just a _ni_ _ño_ and turn him away. But not, maybe, he thinks the idea dawning on him, if he looks like them. The bandolier he made is in his room--

Still it’s going to take time to run to the _orfanato_ and back. What if he’s too late? What if he can’t find them?

On the other hand, if they turn him away and ride off on horses, it won’t be too long before he can’t catch up anyway.

He glances between the _orfanato_ and the road, the decision feeling like it’s tearing him apart in the middle. What should he do? Which would be better?!

“Aughh!” He sinks, clutching his head. He can’t know which is better. He _can_ _’t._ He doesn’t see _how_. So he just has to make one whether it’s right or not. He wants to be taken with them, he decides, whatever happens. Héctor takes a deep breath then runs for the _orfanato_. It takes forever, and his legs are shaking underneath him but he keeps going. As he gets closer he can’t help but notice that there is no one outside; a strange thing on a hot day and there is a strange black flag hung over the door that’s faintly familiar. Maybe they were afraid of the galloping revolutionaries—or ready to surrender to the _Federales._ The thought makes him shiver. Maybe the padre had told them to stay in.

If that’s the case he can’t run into any _Hermanas_ , not that he was intending to use the front door anyway. He hoists himself into his room through the window, clambering in-- and stops. Five of the seven other boys he shares the room with are there, sleeping on their mats, curled up. He wonders about this as he grabs his bandolier from under his mat, something uneasy going through him. There is a whimper and notices Andrés tucked up in the far corner, face pale and covered with livid red spots.

Oh no.

He should-- He should do something. He peeks out into the silent hallway and sees _Hermana_ Josefine leaning against the wall, head braced on her arm, shoulders hunched.

“ _He--hermana?_ ” he says, not sure even how to say it. She goes rigid and he winces. “Andrés…”

“What are you doing here, Héctor?!” she snaps, turning to him, eyes bright, face flecked with spots.

“I-- I was-- Andrés is--”

“Get out! _Get out!_ You stupid _ni_ _ño_! Didn’t you see the flag?!” She’s coming at him furiously, like a storm herself. He backs away, sure he’s going to get hit and stumbles against the doorway, barking his shoulder. Fireworks go off in the distance. Only, those can’t be fireworks. It must be-- Panic flares through him.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise!” he calls as he darts back into the room and falls out the window. He’s running again, following the road. It’s a long way and he has to stop several times to catch his breath. But soon he can smell some acrid burning smoke on the wind, coming from near _Se_ _ñor_ Flores’ farm. There are strange lumps on the road and as he comes closer and realizes what they are. His stomach turns over. He slows to a walk. Wanting to run in the opposite way. Were any of those Ernesto? Had he come too late? He stops completely as he sees _Se_ _ñor_ Flores, lying face down in the long grass, Muerte draped half over him.

“Good dog,” Héctor rasps, crouching to pat Muerte’s head. It’s still warm but the dog doesn’t move.

Voices rise on the other side of the farm and a flare of hope surges in him. Are they revolutionaries? Is it possible Ernesto is still alive? He starts slowly toward the road again, but there is a hiss from the shadows by the fence. Héctor can see a shape in the gloom and hurries over, grin on his face -- then he smells the blood and his hands shake. It isn’t Ernesto leaning against the fence, white shirt blossomed with red, but _Se_ _ñor_ Campos. Héctor isn’t sure how to feel. Relieved. Worried. Sad.

“I’ll--!” _get a doctor,_ he wants to say, but _Se_ _ñor_ Campos holds up a finger, gesturing behind him to the fence and maybe the voices beyond. _Federales_? He mouths and the man nods, then winces. Héctor wants to do something but feels like there’s nothing he _can_ do.

“Go hide in the house,” _Se_ _ñor_ Campos whispers. “Don’t try to leave until the _Federales_ have gone.” When Héctor nods the man sighs in a burbling kind of way, coughs, red coming to his lips and smiles, reaching up to brush his palm against Héctor’s cheek. “ _Ay,_ always in trouble you are. You remind me of my own _hijo._ Miss him every day.” His eyes dim a little. “Take care of yourself, Héctor.”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” Héctor whispers, hoping that suddenly he’ll recover, that the bleeding will stop, that some saint or lady or whatever will appear and heal him. _Se_ _ñor_ Campos gaze fixes on something over Héctor’s shoulder and he smiles faintly in something that feels like wonder before his breath rattles in his chest and his hand falls to Héctor’s shoulder. Héctor swallows thickly and takes the man’s hand, squeezing it briefly before setting it on his lap. His throat feels thick and his eyes raw and he desperately wants to look for Ernesto but isn’t sure he wants to find him.

He creeps into the house, instead, telling himself he can look later-- look when he can stand it. When the _Federales_ have gone. There is a gasp and a low growl rumbles through the air. No no! What if the _Federales_ hear? Héctor looks around frantically until he can see the angry crouching shape of Lujosa through the curtained doorway of a bedroom. Behind the massive dog, _Se_ _ñora_ Flores is huddled against the wall, one hand on her belly.

“It’s only me,” Héctor whispers, kneeling, showing his hands that are empty. He even takes off the bandolier hoping that helps. Lujosa growls again, hackles raised. _Se_ _ñora_ Flores reaches out a trembling hand to touch the dog’s back.

“ _Cállete,_ ” she whispers. The dog settles. Héctor smiles at her gratefully and then sits, knees drawn up to his chest, watching her as she watches him. He wishes he could say something to her to reassure her that it’s okay. He wonders if she knows her husband is dead out there. He doesn’t know how she feels about him, doesn’ t know how she could, but it must be terrible to be suddenly alone.

It is quiet then.

So quiet he can hear them all breathing.

So quiet he can hear his heartbeat.

So quiet he is sure the _Federales_ can hear it too as their voices draw closer.

“Do you think we’ll go now?” a man says. “I haven’t been home in _months_.”

“Who can say?” says another. The first man groans.

“We got what we came for, didn’t we?”

“Maybe, _compadre_. But I hear the Captain doesn’t like it when impudent upstarts like Santa Cecilia harbor rebels…”

The first man sighs: “Feel sorry for them.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” says the second.

Héctor looks up. What does that mean? What are they planning to do to Santa Cecilia? Padre de León had said it would be a disaster. The _Federale_ had been sad about it. Whatever it is, it’s not good. But whose to stop them? _Se_ _ñor_ Campos is dead, others too, strewn on the road like forgotten laundry. He can run and warn the people in town, but what if the _Federales_ spot him and shoot him in the back? He can just imagine himself lying facedown on the grass like _Se_ _ñor_ Flores, dying all alone and forgotten…

And maybe the others dying too. The padre, Ernesto if he wasn’t already, La Llorona and her little _familia_. Everyone he’s ever laughed with or talked to or borrowed from or played checkers with on a hot afternoon. He can’t help but see them shot, bloodied, dying; flies swarming in the thick air. At least, he thinks gloomily, the _orfanato_ is safe. He remembers that black flag now. Quarantine, disease, no one smarter than a tick on a dog would decide to go there.

Héctor straightens as an idea comes to mind… Wait! Wait wait wait. No… Wait! Maybe…What if…? No it’s a stupid idea. Only a true _idiota_ would actually go through with it. On the other hand, it’s the only idea he’s got.

But what he’s not got is time.

Héctor jumps to his feet, offering a sheepish smile and holding up his hands as _Se_ _ñora_ Flores flinches, then pads to the kitchen as quietly as he can, rooting around until he comes across a jar of flour. He throws handfuls of it in his face and along his shoulders and arms, to make his skin paler. Then, in a dash of inspiration, swipes some soot from the fireplace, dabbing it on his face. If he has just red it’s going to look flat, he thinks. Like he was trying to get ready for some _fiesta_ and had a really hard time doing it. But red… red… how is he going to get red?

Oh! Maybe?

He peeks his head around the curtain slowly, so she won’t startle again and waves. She stares at him, brow furrowed as if she thinks he’s gone _loco_. Maybe he has. But he’ll hold onto the nervous giddy feeling for as long as he can since it keeps his legs going.

‘Lip paint?’ he mouths. She shakes her head like she doesn’t understand. He wants to speak up but he can see the shadow of those _Federales_ across the floor and knows it’s death to try. So he repeats it, miming putting on lip paint around his mouth. Then, hoping to further the point, dabs the imaginary paint across him before dropping his head, sticking his tongue out and trying to look sick.

Her eyes widen as if she understands. She holds up a hand, then crawls to a trunk by the foot of the bed which she carefully opens. It creaks a little and she winces, startling as one of the _Federales_ says:

“Did you hear something?”

And gasps, nearly dropping the lid.

Héctor catches it just in time, heart beating double time. They stay like that in tense quiet until the other one says.

“Your gas maybe.”

Héctor lets out a breath. That was close. _Se_ _ñora_ Flores presses her hand over her mouth, eyes glinting with fear and he nods encouragingly. It’s fine. It’s fine. They’re still alive. She digs to the very bottom of the trunk to pull out a glass jar wrapped in a silk handkerchief. She smiles at the jar, running her fingers over it, as if it’s something very important… When she opens it he can see there’s not much left. He doesn’t want to use something so precious, he feels terrible about it. If he could find something else, he would, but he can’t so he doesn’t even try to mention it.

 _Se_ _ñora_ Flores smiles at him faintly as if she knows what he’s thinking and gestures for him to sit. He kneels and rests his hands on his legs, trying not to twitch as she dabs the warm liquid all over his face, then spots on his shoulders and arms. She gestures for him to turn and he obeys, wincing as he feels it on the lower part of his neck and the back of his shoulders. He hadn’t thought about that.

Finally she pats his back. He stands and she grabs the hem of his shirt so that he looks back at her. She is just looking at him, something kind and sad in her eyes, like she’s saying good luck and goodbye all at once. Héctor tries not to think of that as an omen. He gives her another confident grin and she lets go of him and he kind of wishes she hadn’t because now he has to go to the door.

He can do this, he thinks as he takes one step in front of another, feeling a wave of dizziness go through him. He’s _got_ to do this. It’s _got_ to work. Oh, please, let it work. He feels on the verge of passing out as he reaches the front door, blood charging through him, spiked and anxious. Héctor takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, closing his eyes and pulling the tune of ‘La Adelita’ into his mind… and goes out.

There are thick clouds closing in on the sky, full and heavy with the promise of rain. Héctor takes two steps and looks at _Se_ _ñor_ Campos… The body of _Se_ _ñor_ Campos… There’s a kid somewhere who will never see his Papá again. ‘ _Hu_ _érfano, muchacho,_ ’ he thinks, and closes the man’s eyes with his fingertips.

Then, feeling heavier by the second, he moves around the fence toward the _Federales_. There are only two sentries by the house, the others further afield around some man kneeling on the ground, hands behind his head. There is the glint of a pistol. Héctor winces. A shot rings through the air.

“Hey! What are you doing there, _ni_ _ño_?!” one of the _Federales_ demands.

“Wait,” says the other. “Look at his face.”

“Oohh _Se_ _ñors,_ help me,” Héctor moans, clutching his stomach like he feels queasy. Since it already does, it’s not hard to fake. “ _Medicina~_ Water~ I’m going to die…OOoOooooohhh”

“What is it?” says the first _Federale_. “The pox?”

“All over town!” Héctor staggers toward them, hands outstretched. “Black flags everywhere. My Mamá is dying. Pleeassseee. _Medicina~_ Water~” He moans a bit louder.

“Stay right where you are!” the first _Federales_ says, pointing a rifle at him. Héctor freezes. “Go tell the captain!”

Héctor watches the other _Federale_ run off to where the group of men are around the now dead man, blood spilling on the road. He can’t tell who it is but his heart stings like an onion in his chest. All he can see is black hair, broad shoulders… He wavers even more, blinking hard. If his face gets wet at all he’s dead. A raindrop falls on his hand, his shoulder.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

The _Federale_ is talking to a man with a blue military cap who turns toward them. _Please go_ , Héctor shouts at them in his mind. _Please. Get out of here!_ The blue cap starts walking toward him. There is a noise from behind him and he can see the blue capped man hesitate. _Se_ _ñora_ Flores is staggering down the road, looking even sicker than him, the red spots lurid on her face.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Help.” Then gives a sad little cry and starts to collapse.

“No!” Héctor says, throwing his arms around her and helping to ease her to the ground. Is she fainting? Is it the heat? It occurs to him, then, that she might be faking it. He hides his face in her hair as he watches the sentry race back to his captain and the man shake his head. _Please_ , he thinks once more, desperately. The captain makes a gesture and the _Federales_ head off, one of them grabbing the man they had been standing around and dragging him off through the mud. It’s not Ernesto, that Héctor can see, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Still he doesn’t move even as the _Federales_ mount their horses and ride off, nor for a while after that-- until his legs go numb.

They don’t come back.

He lets out a long ragged breath and sits back, shaking wet hair from his eyes and grinning at _Se_ _ñora_ Flores whose eyes are red.

“That was an adventure, eh?” He says. She nods and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands. The rain pours down her face anyway as if she hasn’t done anything. A small giggle escapes him before he knows it’s there and she giggles too and suddenly they’re both in fits. A loud rumble of thunder quiets them and Héctor looks around. Santa Cecilia might be safe, but things didn’t end well for everyone. He can’t help but stare at the bodies, lying there on the dirt that’s being quickly churned to mud. And maybe… maybe one of those bodies is…

His throat tightens.

 _Se_ _ñora_ Flores touches his shoulder gently.

“We should get them out out of the way,” she says, as if she somehow understands. He nods and helps her to her feet-- then helps her drag the former revolutionaries out of the way and into the grass. Héctor knows all of them, if not by name, and his heart sinks as he sees scruffy there, too. There are eight revolutionaries in all, and _Se_ _ñor_ Campos to look over them. Maybe they have _familia_ or _ni_ _ños_ waiting for them to come home. Héctor feels sorry for them, he really does, but he can’t cover the small guilty seed of happy relief that Ernesto is not among them.

o.o.o.o.o.o

There is a small crowd in the cemetery of Santa Cecilia. It’s an unusual sight for a day outside _Dia de Muertos._ Even though only one or two of the revolutionaries had come from Santa Cecilia, they were all considered heroes, and people have come to pay their respects. Héctor leans against Ernesto, taking comfort from his solid presence, his realness. It’s nice to have that arm around his shoulder again, to just stand here with him and listen to him breathing-- especially since he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see him again. Ernesto breathes a quiet laugh.

“I still can’t believe you convinced an entire cadre of _Federales_ we had the pox.” He shakes his head, grip tightening a little on Héctor’s shoulder. “You could have been killed.”

“ _I_ can’t believe you spent the entire day drinking in the cantina and didn’t even save me a drop,” Héctor says, elbowing him lightly in the side teasingly. He’s glad Ernesto was there, though. After he and _Se_ _ñora_ Flores had told Padre de León the news… though it was more _Se_ _ñora_ Flores who could take credit as the padre hadn’t believed him-- Héctor had searched for any other revolutionaries who might be around or who might know where Ernesto was.

In looking he’d found his _amigo_ in the cantina, drunk as anything and singing along tearfully with ‘ _Sonaron Cuatro Balazos_ ’. Héctor had hugged him around the middle and Ernesto had hugged him back and cried on his head and Héctor may have cried a little too. Later on, when Ernesto’s head decided to stop killing him, he’d told Héctor that the Padre had convinced him to think on it more, though Ernesto had been determined to go until his fifth glass and after that it was a blur. Héctor doesn’t know if he really believes that Ernesto had drunk himself out of the thought, but Ernesto doesn’t tell him why, it’s fine. So long as he’s still here.

Even better, Ernesto isn’t going back to the shit farm. For right now they’re both staying at a little room in the boarding house in town, and Ernesto has been apprenticed to the rat catcher. It’s not anything Ernesto wants, but now Héctor has a little more time.

“That’s sad…” Ernesto murmurs, pulling Héctor’s attention back to the present. “Look at it… On one side, honor and glory…” He gestures with a broad hand to where the crowd has gathered for the revolutionaries. “And on the other…” He gestures again, to the tiny graves on the other side, nearer the fence and almost completely abandoned.

Héctor’s heart grows heavy again. Some kids had survived. Andrés had, though he’d probably be scarred, a few of the girls… Most of the _monjas_ too. Martín had not. _Hermana_ Josefina had not. Other kids who Héctor had known for a long time had not. He’s not sure what to do about it except try not to feel the pulling sadness, the sudden emptiness.

“We’ll end up like that, you know,” Ernesto says softly. “Forgotten…”

“No we won’t,” Héctor says. Ernesto gives him a fond sad smile like he’s an adult and Héctor was just a _ni_ _ño_ who doesn’t know anything. It’s times like this he hopes for a growth spurt. …Something those kids will never get.

Ah, it’s so sad… He tries not to think about it, tries not to let the clouds drown him.

“Come on,” Ernesto says, urgently and under his breath. Héctor wonders why. He starts to follow Ernesto’s lead toward the small graves, as it’s hard not to do with the other’s arm around his shoulders but wriggles out of his grip when the padre calls his name. The man is limping toward them, guitar case in one hand, and a small smile on his face.

“Héctor…” Ernesto says in a strange tone and Héctor suddenly wonders if he’s ashamed.

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up,” he says. Ernesto gives him a glance he can’t read and continues on. Padre de León closes the distance and gives Héctor a warm hug. It’s strange that the padre keeps hugging him so much, but not in a bad way. It’s almost like he’s relieved or something.

“It’s a sad day, isn’t it?” the padre says finally, pulling away, though keeping his hand on Héctor’s shoulder. To the question, Héctor can only nod. It seems dangerous, somehow, to say anything out loud.

“I won’t keep you for long,” Padre de León continues, warmly. “But I was wondering… the church could probably support you if you wanted to go into the seminary.”

“Sem-what?”

“A place to learn to become a priest.”

“No way!” Héctor makes a face. Just thinking of all the stiff collars and praying and no drinking or cursing… It sounds like a jail sentence. “I’m going to be a _m_ _úsico_.”

The padre laughs softly. “God and _m_ _úsica_ don’t always work at cross purposes.”

“No” It’s more than just the music. He wants to be free to play it wherever he wants, to travel with the wind and play and sing the good songs and the fun songs and the sad songs and show everyone all that is in him.

“Sí, so I thought you’d say. Well… that’s fine…” Padre de León holds out his guitar case. Héctor blinks and takes it, wondering what he’s supposed to do with it. “For you,” the Padre says, ruffling his hair.

“ _What?!_ ” For him? He peeks inside to make sure it isn’t some practical joke, but the beautiful red brown guitar is nestled inside.

“You saved the town,” Padre de León says. “You deserve something.” He frowns. “Even if most of them will never know…”

Héctor nods, throat swelling with emotion so he can’t speak. He doesn’t care that the town won’t know. It doesn’t matter. He understands why the padre couldn’t say anything either. People will sleep better if they think the revolutionaries were the ones that saved him rather than a kid and a tiny woman armed with lip paint and hope.

Padre de León gives him another one armed hug and says:

“Good luck, Teto _._ ” Before heading back to the cemetery gate. Héctor turns, swirling with emotion, to where Ernesto is standing by the fresh graves of the _ni_ _ños,_ hands in his pockets, head bowed. His face is tight, his entire body tense. It’s hard for men to cry, Héctor knows. Except when drinking or in great pain. Otherwise it’s up to them to put on a blank face and a proud stance. He wants to help him. To move this feeling through him. To move his own feeling of guilt and pain as he looks at the small headstone for Martín. There’s not even a last name.

"It’s sad…” Ernesto says, voice breaking. “…So sad…”

Héctor nods. Swallows. Somehow reaches deep inside to find his own voice.

“You… You should sing…”

“Sing?” Ernesto glares at him. “You think _singing_ is going to work at a time like this?!”

“ _S_ _í!_ Try it. No one can hear you. Just go deep from your gut.” He fumbles for the guitar, nearly dropping it as he takes it out of its case. The smell from it is wonderful and makes his eyes sting. Ernesto gives him a suspicious look.

“Where did you even get that.”

“Forget that for now…Please, _mi amigo, mi hermano_ _…_ Just… just try it…” He doesn’t know why it’s so important but it is. For both of them. To get out what would be coiled in further and further until there is nothing left to do but break. He starts playing ‘ _De colores_ ’, a song he knows Ernesto knows by heart. It’s a painful song now, sharp as knives between his ribs but he keeps playing, over and over, hoping Ernesto will sing.

Then, softly, barely able to be heard over his own playing, he hears his _amigo_ _’’s_ soft deep voice.

_“De colores,_  
De colores se visten los campos  
en la primevera …” 

Héctor closes his eyes, playing just a little softer to encourage him to sing louder. He plays the knot loose from his insides, spooling out the sadness, listening to Ernesto continue, voice louder, somehow bolder, shaking with emotion.

_“De colores,_  
_De colores son los pajaritos  
_ _Que vienen de fuera~_

_De colores_  
De colores son los pajaritos  
_Es el arco iris que vemos lucir~_ ”

Wet drips onto his hand and wrist and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, playing on, matching his voice and supporting it, even though it trembles--Héctor can feel it, can feel the movement of it and the whole world seeming to listen-- and maybe even the world beyond. He hopes they can hear it. This song for them.

He feels something warm brush against his shoulder and opens his eyes. La Llorona is standing by his side, close enough to touch. She’s not the only one… His eyes widen as he plays on. People have gathered nearby, watching Ernesto, listening to him sing-- the men stand straight their eyes glistening, some of the women dab their eyes with handkerchiefs. _See?_ He wants to say. The kids are not forgotten. People just needed something to remind them of…of them… Of these kids left alone, but still there, still important-- and in some way, with their little deaths, had helped save the town, too.

Héctor plays …and plays and plays, so people will never forget.


	5. All the Things Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda is strong enough to sacrifice anything for the sake of her _familia_ , even if it means herself.

She wasn’t going to be angry. She wasn’t going to be angry. Imelda repeated this to herself, a mantra, something Filipe taught her too long ago to remember details. She was calm as a summer’s day. Someone had told her once that being angry with someone just meant they had found a way to get under your skin. She didn’t find that piece of ‘advice’ helpful then and she certainly didn’t know. Of _course_ he got under her skin. She didn’t even _have_ skin, he was there, tapping apologetically against the inside of her bones.

She drummed her fingers against the pages of the open accounts book, trying to focus on the numbers that were listed down in neat lines across the page, all perfectly orderly— until lately. She couldn’t help but glower at the blotches and strike outs that showed carelessness on her part. It wasn’t as complicated a process in the Land of the Dead and mistakes were hardly dire, but being so distracted just irritated her.

And lately they’d had more orders than they knew what to do with and could barely keep up with production. Part of it was the usual people preparing for _las posadas,_ wanting new shoes for _fiestas_ or balls or performances. They’d always had an uptick in sales this time of year. Except this year, in addition to that, it seemed like every _m_ _úsico_ in the Land of the Dead had decided that the Rivera family was some sort of good luck. That would have been fine if _m_ _úsicos_ used credit lines like everyone else, but they were full of sentiment and now the storehouse was inundated with things _m_ _úsicos_ got on their ofrendas; instruments, records, flashy _chaquetas,_ among other things… _._ She was happy to get the orders, but every time she looked into the store room there was this overwhelming sensation of—something. A great feeling that welled up under her rib cage, painful and throbbing with nowhere to go. It made her both want to touch a guitar or record, and to smash it into oblivion. She couldn’t identify it. She didn’t have _time_ for it. She was too old for this sort of nonsense.

It was all because of him. That _pain_ of a man. He’d lingered with her for fifty more years after, a painful ghost, lurking in the corner of her mind ready to drift out when she least expected it. She’d thanked him then, in a bitter way, using that anger to charge forward into whatever she was doing; working herself long past the point of exhaustion just to show him she didn’t care. At least, she had thought, if oblivion waited for her, she could cleanse her mind of him. Which had been difficult to do with seventy _more_ years of him just _lurking_ there. Even if not present, always just _there_. Every _Dias de Muertos_ a part of her tensed wondering when or if he’d show up. The sad part was that she was livid for a while whether he’d shown up regardless. Angry to see him, angry to have to worry about seeing him the whole night only for there to be nothing. Fortunately seeing her growing, changing _familia_ always put her at ease and in those wondrous moments, she was able to forget herself and just watch with pride all that they accomplished.

Still she had to give him credit that after a while he’d gotten the message she’d tried to hammer into his skull and stayed away. He at least eventually understood when he wasn’t wanted.

“Of course now that I need you here, where are you?” Her voice sounded angry in the still room and she took her spectacles off, rubbing her forehead even though the hollow noise of bone against bone did nothing for the headache she shouldn’t be having. It was so typical of him! She needed him _here_. To learn about Coco. To get them all used to the idea of him… being here. Among them. So the _familia_ could learn about him and vice versa. Was it so hard to just show up? Couldn’t he do _one simple thing_?! Imelda slammed the account book shut and winced when she heard the faint crack of the spectacles snapping in half. _Peeerfecto_. Just what she needed.

She opened the book again to scrape the spectacles into the trash and straightened at the distinct sound of someone on the stone courtyard of the hacienda. Was it—? A strange high feeling rose in her throat and she rested a hand against her breastbone. But no— it wasn’t. She knew that even before the door opened and Oscar called that he was home. For one thing those had been shoes ringing against the stone and, as far as she knew, that poor _idiota_ still walked around barefoot.

Imelda stared blankly at the accounts book, annoyed how the heart that she didn’t even have dropped in a familiar painful way that hadn’t happened to her in a _very_ long time. No matter how many years had passed as a living woman, that cursed feeling remained in her— not as vivid as she was when she was younger and the wound was still fresh and raw— but sometimes, when she was by herself, alone in a sleeping house at twilight or waking up in the misty morning— she would hear footsteps outside and the hope burst bright as a bird in her chest. When she was younger she’d raced to the door, ready to throttle him to an inch of his stupid life, and then kiss the rest out.

_T_ _hat—_ she slammed her open palm against the book, annoyed her the most! She wanted to hat him. To _loathe_ him. She hadn’t wanted to forgive him that easily! She had wanted to _just_ hate him. To not miss him so badly it hurt. To turn him away. To send him packing. No seeing Coco. No seeing her. Just getting out and _staying_ out of her life.

How _dare_ he bring all those feelings back to her now! When she had gotten rid of it! When she needed to keep herself at a distance! Though this time _if_ he showed up she really was going to throttle him. Because now every time a visitor or runner came to the front door, the heart she _did not have_ lurched in prickling fear. That someone from the Department of Family Reunions would be there, informing her that Coco had arrived. It was one thing to mourn the passing of her daughter’s life… She knew was slipping away like a breath from her _hija_ _’s_ poor old body… She had prepared herself for that. Had been for years. But _now_ she had to worry about that _idiota_ not being here. Oh he might show up later under his own steam and if he did that she really would never forgive him. He had _better_ show up before she died. He had _better_.

“Where are you, you stupid man!” A part of her wondered if he even would come back. If he _would_ wait until she returned or someone tracked him down and physically _dragged_ him. After all, what was here to return to? A _familia_ that didn’t know him and a woman who was always angry with him. Imelda raised her chin, pulling her hand into a light fist. She wouldn’t be angry, she repeated to herself. She wouldn’t let him get under her skin or in her bones. She could even be _kind_ to him. She would treat him with polite civility as she would with any stranger or customer or shop keeper. That was all he would be to her. All he would ever be.

She was above this. Imelda closed the book once more, cleaning off her desk, everything in its place. She had been the _matrona_ of this _familia,_ this business, both of which she’d built up with sweat and blood but no tears. No _tears_. Not over that _m_ _úsico._ Not ever. All he needed was her _familia_ and nothing else. Imelda flicked the wrinkles from the deep green dress she’d decided to wear that day, tying the leather apron around her waist.

Feeling calm and serene, she moved into the sitting room, heading for the shop, when someone rapped on the door. Oscar looked up. Rosita dropped her sewing. Julio’s head lifted. Was this it? Had the time come? So soon? She wanted to sink into the chair and let someone else answer it, but her _familia_ were frozen in place. She knew what they were thinking. They wanted it to be the news and they didn’t want it at all.

Imelda tucked a hair into place, prepared herself and went to the door, opening it.

Héctor was smiling at her on the other side of the doorway, that cringing sheepish smile and he wiggled the fingers of one hand in a greeting. She could only stare at him, feeling an odd sense of displacement. Even though she had held him tenderly as he was fading in the Final Death, and felt revulsion over knowing the cause of his first death—she wanted to kill him all over again. Still, it was an oddly calming feeling, this oncoming homicide. If he didn’t say anything stupid, maybe she could get through it.

“ _Hola_ , Imelda,” he said after a moment, rubbing the back of his head with one hand and holding out a wilted silk flower with the other.

“What are you doing, Héctor?,” she said, her voice calm and sharp as a needle as she moved his wrist out of the way with the back of her hand, not even a hard push.

“Um, _—_ ” he started. She didn’t let him finish. What was the point? 

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been?” she said evenly, hand on her hip.

“Eh heh…” he poked his index fingers together and looked at the ground. “Two weeks?”

He _knew!_ He _knew_ how costly the wait was and still he—! That— No… no it was fine. It was perfectly fine. _Customer,_ she thought. _Stranger, shop keeper_.

“That is almost a month,” she said.

“Well—” he grinned that big stupid cringing grin that means he’s going to try to be funny and so help him if one stupid joke slipped past his teeth. But then his eyes widened with something like horror and grief contorted his face because the man couldn’t hide an emotion if it killed him. “Did…Has Coco…”

“No,” she said. “She hasn’t.”

Héctor relaxed, as if that was all that needed to be heard, as if the none of the rest of it mattered.

“And lucky for me, because imagine, seeing her sitting there with a bright hopeful face as I reach out to hug her and she says: ‘Where’s Papá’?” It was a low blow but she didn’t care.

“Do you have any _idea_ what that’s like? To have a three-year-old ask the same question night after night? To have no answer for her? Or when she’s ten and nearly dying of pneumonia and spend the whole time crying for some _flojo_ who decided he’d loved himself more? To have no Papá to give her away at her wedding? Do you know? _Do you_?” She had started to shout somewhere along the line and backed him up against the adobe wall. She saw as every line made him wince, and she knew that it hurt but she didn’t care. She wanted it to hurt. She wanted him to feel every _segundo_ of hurt that she’d gone through.That he’d put _Coco_ through.

“ _Lo siento_ , Imelda…” he said, looking down, a broken man. The pain had lowered the timbre of his voice and she hated it. It was like he was fading all over again and she wanted to reach out to him. To forgive him. She never could. She never would. He looked up, caught her eyes, his own glassy and she clutched at her skirt with one hand.

“But you know… I would be there…. No matter what…” he said with a sincerity that made her _ache_.

“And how would you even know,” she said, impatient with _herself_ more than anything.

“Don’t they…tell you?” he said, confused.

The door to the sitting room shut behind her. Imelda looked away, feeling a burst of shame. This was quickly followed by a burst of anger. No, why _should_ she be ashamed? It had been a different circumstance then. She had _nothing_ to apologize for and wasn’t even going to begin to start.

“Imelda?” Héctor said.

“You wouldn’t have been informed,” she said, stalking a short way down the courtyard, hand on her hip, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“…Why not?”

She knew he was going to ask and had braced herself for it. She stared up at the city rising above and around her, lights beginning to glow in a dusty halo as night fell. She searched the darkening skies for Pepita… The _alebrije_ was nowhere to be found. That’s fine. She’s more than capable of doing this on her own.

“I told them not to,” she said, making her voice straight and simple. “I didn’t want you to come anywhere near her.” She swiped her hand to the side, remembering the anger, the cold determination. To not under any circumstances let Héctor near her. To even move if she had to, far away where he could never find them. It was right. It was _just_. It was—

“I understand.”

She threw her hands skyward. Of _course_ he understood. She wanted to strangle him for it. 

“But— It doesn’t matter now.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter now?!” she snapped, rounding on him once more. “It was my life! I lived—” No she didn’t want to say that, whatever was tugging at her throat. “I—spent — all my life trying to get rid of you. To sponge you away. Every part of you. And now you say it _doesn_ _’t matter_?” Her life had been _more_ than that of course. It had been full of hard work and _famulia_ Success, loss, joy, fear and triumph. She had made herself strong and her loved ones stronger. And yet he’d always been there, lurking in the shadows, quiet in the door, in her _hija_ _’_ s footsteps, in Elena’s eyes. In trying so hard to forget him she couldn’t but help to remember him.

And here he was, cringing against the wall, holding his hat like a shield, his eyes searching hers as if trying to find a way to fix this.

“Iiii just meant that—It doesn’t matter… because I’m here now?” He looked down. “I took too long, I know that. But I promise I will be—”

“Don’t promise, just be.” She turned away, rubbing her forehead. He was not the same man he had been. Just looking at him she couldn’t help but be reminded of that. Now he was just another to be guided along, pushed and pulled and nagged to do the right thing for everyone. It was fine. For Coco’s sake, it was fine. She would do what she had to and the rest didn’t matter. If she had a heart it would be stone, her backbone was already steel. She braced herself on the stone, took in the feeling of home around her. Héctor was part of the family. The rest of it was nothing.

“You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “You’re here now so… go in. Talk to them.” And then when he became part of the _familia_ he’d be just— almost just like everyone else. Though she couldn’t see him standing around long enough to make shoes, she thought, narrowing her eyes. In fact there were some tools she wouldn’t even _trust_ him around. So maybe—

“Actually… I think I should leave.”

Imelda closed her eyes. Counted to twenty. She was going to kill him otherwise, she knew that. If her eyes were open she’d be tempted to look at him and if she _looked_ she’d want to beat his skull like a _pi_ _ñata_. _Why_ did he have to be so _difficult_.

“Héctor—”

“ _Gracias_ for inviting me… And I want to learn more about Coco, honest.”

“ _Héctor_ —”

“But maaybe this isn’t the best way to go about it.”

“ _Madre mio,_ just _do_ as you’re _told!_ ” Had he always been like this? She couldn’t remember. If he had she didn’t know _why_ she’d liked that about him.

“Imelda, I just don’t want—”

“I don’t _care_ about what you want.” She turned, saw him, regretted it. He had come closer so that he was only a breath away from her and had raised both hands like he was going to touch her shoulders. She glared at him and he held up his hands, palms flat as if in surrender, and backed against the wall.

"I care,” she continued, in a steadier voice than she’d imagined being capable of. “About this _familia_. About getting you in it. About Coco having as wonderful a transition as she can manage.”

“Listen, Imelda. All I want to do is tell her I love her, give her a hug, spend…a day or two and then—”

“Then what?” she said, cold fury washing through her. “Because if you are planning to leave after all that, then I will make your life so _miserable_ you’ll _wish_ for the Final Death.”

“No no! I’ll hang around, _te lo juro_. But… I’ll just… you know…” he gestured with both hands off to the side. “Visit.”

“No.” She didn’t know if she could stand that again. The anxious waiting when he didn’t show up, the irritation when he did.

“Imelda…”

“No! Stop _arguing_ with me.” No _wonder_ Miguelito was so stubborn. “You,” she prodded him in the breastbone. “Are going to go in there,” she prodded him again. “Are going to charm them like you do _everyone_ you meet” Another prod. “And you are going to become _part_ of this _familia_ in all the ways that counts, even if it kills you.”

“But…” And he looked at her with those eyes, that soft expression, full of concern. She can almost see him as he used to be, his thick brows drawing together over the long large nose, his eyelashes dark, hooding his expression and making it more solemn and more beautiful than any man had a right to be. She remembered his lips and the smell of his breath as it ghosted across her face, how she’d loved to make him something sweet… “What about you?” he said.

She hated him. _Hated_ him. How he could always do this to her without fail. No matter how much she fought it. Even when she had been furious with him when she was alive. Alone and heartsick…He would come to her in dreams… a touch along her shoulder, a kiss on the side of her neck— then she’d look and he’d be gone— as if he’d never been. She’d hated that she’d wanted him. She’d hated that she couldn’t hate him no matter how _much_ she wanted to. And now they were both dead and none of it mattered, she told herself. All in the past, all in the past.

“Just go, Héctor,” she said, gesturing to the sitting room so he couldn’t be mistaken about where she wanted him to be.

“Imelda…”

“ _Go_! Just _go._ _”_

He sighed, jammed his hat on his head, and went. She turned to watch him go to the door and hesitate. She moved in front of the entrance so he couldn’t bolt. If he did. If he even tried—. He looked back at her and winced which made her sure that he had at least thought about it, and turned back around and knocked. The door opened. Oscar peered out. Looked at her. She nodded.

“ _Primo_ , it’s been a while. Nice to see you.”

_Primo_ was good, Imelda thought. She liked that moniker for him. It made him close but not awkwardly so.

“Back at you, _muchacho,_ ” Héctor said, nervously and as Oscar stepped back, went stiff legged into the house. Oscar looked back at her as if to ask if she was coming. She shook her head. He closed the door.

Imelda shuddered feeling an unexpected chill go through her. It was a strange thing. Now she was outside and Héctor was not.

And so what if she was? She had gotten what she wanted, even if it had taken considerable effort, but eventually it would be easier so long as she kept strictly to this path. Anyway, she had things to do, vendors to see, supplies to shop for. She couldn’t be bothered worrying about a foregone conclusion.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Imelda was exhausted. She leaned back in the seat, holding the silk lily in her lap and trying to ignore the the other passengers pressing around her. The _tranv_ _ía_ shuddered to life as it started along its cord that would carry them down to the lower levels. She didn’t know what she was thinking, traveling to the biggest marketplace in the area this time of year. Even though it was not quite December, the preparations for _las posadas_ were beginning to show up everywhere, _nacimeinto_ in windows or in displays, fake evergreens shining with gold lights, _faralitos_ lining a plaza here, leading the way to a shop there, everywhere spilling over with crowds…and _everywhere_ spilling over _m_ _úsica._

She had learned very early on that _m_ _úsica_ was impossible to escape completely, especially in Santa Cecilia. The lady being the patron saint of _m_ _úsicos,_ it had always brought them in droves-- poor _m_ _úsicos_ from the countryside, desperate _m_ _úsicos_ from the larger towns and cities, all hoping some of the luck of the illustrious Ernesto de la Cruz would rub off on them. The thought of him made her scowl and she fought to hold back the anger rising in her bones. Now was not the time or place… Even if he had always been woven into the fabric of her life and now even moreso than he had been before.

In life, she had learned to ignore the music that she could not stop, avoiding mariachi plaza completely when she could and if she couldn’t, moving as fast as she could through it without seeming ridiculous. In death, it had been a little easier. Except this time of the year. This time of the year was the _worst._

In the Land of the Living _las posadas_ was largely a holy festival, full of beautiful ceremony, though increasingly secular as the years past. A large part of that time was set aside for the children, and even she missed seeing the little _ninos_ dressed up as shepherds or angels, whacking _pi_ _ñata_ or ripping through gifts. Here in the Land of the Dead, it was a time to recover from _Dia de Muertos_. To remember _familia._ To miss children or childhood. To miss _life._ And of course to long for their _familia_ still breathing to _remember_ them.

And so, of course, that blasted song was everywhere. _Everywhere_. Even in life the first time she’d heard it over a crackling _tocadiscos_ in a shop. She had taken the record right off and stomped it to pieces. She had almost given the same punishment to _tocadiscos_ itself had not Filipe not dragged her off. She had, of course, reimbursed the shopkeeper, but she refused to be sorry for doing it. At that time it had been another ghost of Héctor, following her around; stabbing between her ribs whenever she heard it. As if he was somehow taunting her with such a happy tune, so cheerful, so upbeat, as if he was saying, _lo siento, la Llorona,_ you knew it wasn’t going to last. And she _hated_ when he called her that.

Oh, she would remember him, she had thought. She would remember him with a boot upside the head if he ever darkened her doorway again. So he should show up and take his booting like a man. Not that he ever could because that _bastardo_ had _killed_ him and how _dare_ the jumped up -- that jumped up chihuahua take that opportunity away from her!

The _tranv_ _ía_ trilled a stop and she got up, somehow having gotten a clear area around her despite the crowded car. She wasn’t sure where the stop was, but she didn’t care. She needed to walk before she hit something. People jumped out of her way, squeezing against one another as she went out the door.

It was fully dark now, though hard to guess the exact time. Except for _Dia de Muertos,_ nights seemed to last longer in the Land of the Dead. She was grateful for it. Nights had always been her favorite, the soft twilight, the late hours, the quiet of one day slipping into another. Of course out of sheer stubbornness, she had forced herself to go to bed early and wake up earlier when she’d been alive-- but here she didn’t even need sleep unless she wanted it and so it ceased to matter.

_S_ _í_ , it didn’t matter. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of this. All that past, all that history, didn’t matter to now. It _couldn_ _’t_ matter to now. Because soon enough she would be home and have to see him sitting there, looking like a kicked dog. She would have to reign in her temper before that. She would have to push all feelings out of her head so that he could see… so that her _familia_ could see… that she didn’t care.

Imelda raised her head. She knew just how to do it, too.

It didn’t take her long to find a _m_ _úsico_. They weren’t as ubiquitous as they were in Santa Cecilia, where you couldn’t spit without hitting one, but there were plenty around.He was a younger man, too, or so he seemed, big boned and tattoos spreading up his arms. He reminded her in a way of Abelito, and she couldn’t help but feel a little better about this decision.

The man was leaning against the outside of a cafe, playing his guitar with the case opened hopefully in front of him. As far as talent, she’d heard better, but he had sincerity and people had left little offerings for him already. Food, trinkets, cups of coffee. Imelda could also be grateful that he was playing a song that she didn’t immediately recognize. It made this easier.

She waited until he had finished, glad for the time to build herself up, and put the silk lily into his guitar case. It would give him a small line of credit if he took it to an _ofrenda_ bank, enough for a meal or two at least. And at this time of year such a thing was easily traded if you were smart about it.

“’Ey, _buenos noches, Se_ _ñora,_ ” he said with a rough grin. “ _Gracias, gracias._ Got a request?”

No, _gracias_ , she wanted to say. To walk away. But she wouldn’t. For her _familia,_ she wouldn’t. She folded her hands in front of her and looked at him down the line of her nose.

“’Remember Me,’” she said, feeling as if she was betraying herself by even _speaking_ the title of that song. He chuckled ruefully, shifting the guitar against his chest.

“Third time tonight. You have heard that de la Cruz is a--”

“That song wasn't his.” It had never been. And even though she _hated_ that song more than anything, how dare he not even give Héctor credit? Not even for one!

“I see, I see. Fan of that mysterious song writer, are you?”

“No!” She only just kept herself from stomping her foot. What _was_ it about _m_ _úsicos?!_ You wanted them to shut up and they played, infecting your brain, filling your bones… You wanted them to play and they sat around and _chatted._ Even now she saw that little teasing grin and he opened his mouth to say something else.

“Just play,” she said, then realizing that that might sound a little hard added: “ _Por favor._ _”_

“I’ve been meaning to mix it up anyway,” he said with a shrug. “Trying to see if I can do it in the style of something like: ‘Livin’ _la Vida Loca_ ’.” He eyed her. “That alright with you?”

She’d never heard of the song, but the title alone seemed more than accurate to everything that was going on in her world right now.

“ _S_ _í._ ”

While the tune itself was fine, it was probably the worst version of ‘Remember Me’ she had ever heard. It almost made her want to laugh. Most importantly, it had quieted her anger and she felt more able to handle what waited her at home. 

“What do you think?” the _m_ _úsico_ asked. She shrugged. It needed work, and he needed to sing from his gut not through his nose. She was not here to give a lesson, though, nor to get involved with anything beyond forcing herself to hear the song.

“Keep trying,” she said, turning away from his scowl to walk away, hands folded in front of her. _m_ _úsicos_. Didn’t like to hear the truth. Well-- _he_ had. She could criticize anything Héctor wrote. _Anything_ … and instead of cringing and apologizing, he would ask her about it. They would talk and talk, long into the night, over a bottle of tequila or in bed, discussing lyrics and phrasing, stress and response. She had never been good with words or poetry, but she could carry a tune at least and had helped a little, she’d thought. Though considering how popular his songs were, he hadn’t truly needed her after all.

There was a soft rush of wings and she smiled as Pepita landed beside her. She scratched behind one of the creatures great ears and chuckled as the _alebrije_ bumped her massive head against Imelda’s, purring.

“Come to walk with me?” she said. The continued purr was answer enough and Imelda continued to walk, feeling a bit better with a hand buried in Pepita’s feathery fur. As much as she’d thought ‘Remember Me’ was ridiculous, it was everywhere. People loved it. They cherished it. She’d had to turn down people wanting it on their shoes,written or stitched on the sides, carved into the soles--

Well, he’d gotten what he wanted…In a way. And she wondered now if he would have really been happy returning to them. If he would have gotten fidgety and left again, pursuing that relentless dream. She and Coco would have been just an anchor to his life, dragging him down, and she would have been even less able to forgive him than she was now. Or… the true nightmare….

Aside from the dreams of him returning and not being around-- were the dreams of waking up in an empty house, with a note saying: ‘I had to take her’ or ‘Gone with Papá.’ Even here she’d had those dreams, though this time it was of him showing up before her to meet Coco, playing for her and luring her away to somewhere Imelda would never see her again. After all, what was shoe making and responsibility compared to the love and thrill of music. Of the woman who wanted to dance. Who had only stopped because it hurt her. And here, so long as she was remembered fondly, very little could. Of _course_ Coco would go and be with him-- with the Papá she’d loved so dearly and so long. It had broken Imelda’s heart the last time she’d seen her beautiful old wise daughter and she had said: ‘Is Papá coming home now?’

“ _Ay_ …” Imelda murmured, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling the slats of bones and the empty places in between. She _had_ wanted to keep her _familia_ safe, to keep them together… but maybe it had been selfish, too. Maybe most of all she hadn’t wanted them to leave her. To split apart. To follow their passion… Maybe in taking music from them, she had hurt them more than that _flojo_ ever could.

Pepita lowered her head and Imelda climbed onto her neck, feeling the powerful surge of wings and watching the land drop away as she rested her cheek against the back of the _alebrije_ _’s_ head. Well, that would change… and maybe it should. That man in her home was barely a Héctor she knew, but he’d be again one day. He’d go again one day and Coco would go with him. Who knew what the others might do if they could do what they wished. Julio would certainly go with them. Filipe and Oscar might head to a bigger location, more cosmopolitan-- They had lived in Guadalajara until she’d dragged them home and into her isolated little world. Victoria might even go with them, or somewhere on her own. She had had an adventurous spirit and who knew how far and wide the Land of the Dead extended?

But that was enough feeling sorry for herself, Imelda thought, straightening. Music needed to be part of everything again regardless. Héctor as well. As for herself, well-- her living _familia_ would need _somewhere_ to stay when they passed-- at least to recoup and orient themselves. And it wasn’t as if she wouldn’t see them again at _Dia de Muertos._ Héctor at least should have an interest in seeing Miguel --- but he couldn’t, could he? He would be all alone, then, as he always had been here-- with nothing to do but waiting for Miguel to die. At least he would have news, Imelda thought. She owed Héctor that much if nothing more.

Decision made then. Even if she ended up all by herself, she was strong enough to handle it-- and no sacrifice was too great for _familia_. Pepita chuffed, but what the _alibrije_ meant by it, Imelda wasn’t sure.

o.o.o.o.o.o

By the time Pepita landed in the courtyard, Imelda was more calm than she had been in a very long time. She kissed the creature’s nose and nuzzled her, smiling as the purr rumbled through her bones.

“Go get some rest, Pepi. I’ll be fine.”

And she would be. Because she had decided to be. The _alibrije_ yawned, showing beautiful massive teeth, and went to perch on the roof as she so often did, curling up tail to nose. Imelda smiled, blowing her a kiss and then, straightening her apron and tucking back her hair, went to the house. The first thing that struck her was quiet, so quiet the silence almost had a sound. Oscar and Filipe were sitting across the room from one another, a sure sign they had a fight. Julio was whittling a stick to a smaller, sharper stick and Rosita, nearby, was darning socks of all things, her mouth firmly shut. Victoria was nowhere to be seen. And Héctor, oh Héctor, was sitting in a chair by the door, staring at a cup of tea in his hands and looking like a kicked dog. In short, everyone was miserable, but she had no one to blame but herself.

“Mamá Imelda!” Rosita said with a bright false cheer. “Welcome back!”

Julio dropped the knife. Her brothers looked up at her, looked at one another, looked away and Héctor raised his head, seeming more miserable than all of them put together. Then he grinned, a hopeful, cringing, spotting an escape route kind of a grin. She repressed a sigh.

“ _Hola,_ Imelda,” he said, setting his cup to the side and grabbing his hat. “Iii had a great time, but now I should probably go.” She rolled her eyes and gestured that he could, moving out of the doorway and into the courtyard, but grabbing the back of his _chaqueta_ before he could make a full escape.

“Hold it, _bandito,_ ” she said, shutting the door behind them.

“ _Bandito?_ ” His smile became warm and she realized what she’d said. “It’s been a long time since--”

She held up a hand and he shut up immediately.

“ _Lo siento_ , Héctor,” she said, straightening his _chaqueta,_ letting herself see that it wasn’t the same, he wasn’t the same. He was just an old, sad, pile of bone, very loosely held together.

“Imelda…” he said. “You don’t have to--” She glared at him and he shut up again,closing his mouth with a click.

“I am apologizing-- for forcing you into this.” She shook her head, stepped back, folded her arms. “I want you to be part of the _familia_ … but I don’t want to make you miserable.” She may have wanted to once, out of sheer spite, but the time for that had long since passed. After all why would he want to come here to just be shouted at? Be pushed around? And perhaps he felt sorry for her, too. Well she could make that easier on him.

“I want you to feel welcome here. I am sorry for shouting. And if the reason you’re staying away is because you’re trying to protect my feelings? Don’t.”

“But…” That infuriating look again. “Imelda, I--” She put a hand over his mouth. Couldn’t he ever let her have her say in peace? Did he always have to argue? She let out a breath and swallowed her anger and looked into his eyes.

“ Listen to me, Héctor. You were the love of my life,” she said. “I can’t deny it.” And she had spent too long trying to.Then she pulled back once more, arms folded, watching him. “I get angry because I am trying to protect my _hija_.” But she would not be happy if her Papá was sad. And so…

“For myself…” she pressed a hand to her chest. “Long ago, I made a choice… And it wasn’t you.” _You also made a choice,_ she wanted to say. _And it wasn_ _’t me._

And that was fine. Now, it was fine. The rest of it didn’t matter.She watched him pull back, though he hadn’t really moved at all. He said nothing, miraculously, but maybe it was because he understood something which it hadn’t even occurred to her until just now. She loved him, even like this, she did. And maybe he had loved her once. But that kind of love wasn’t enough. Their relationship had died that day, and there was no amount of remembering that could bring it back to life.

“So come back if you want, any time. Or have them meet you elsewhere. Or…” She didn’t want to do this but somehow she knew she had to. “…Or just be there when Coco arrives. I’ll add you back to the list. _Be_ there, Héctor.” She pressed a hand to his chest now, faintly feeling the warm bone. “Promise me you’ll at least do that much.” Even if he took her away…

“I will,” he said, still looking at the ground. “I promise…”

“ _Gracias,_ ” she said, then on impulse, kissed his cheek. “And _gracias_ for coming--” she had been about to say home. The word struck her heart like a bell, the imaginary sound rolling through her, somber and lonely. “--here.” She said, without too much of a pause.

She didn’t want to see what he’d do, how he’d react, so she turned and went into the house. After all, she thought, bypassing her quiet family; she needed to take a moment and after she had centered herself, to look for Victoria.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Victoria was having a reading sulk. The sight of her granddaughter, curled up in a chair where she would usually sit properly, made Imelda smile and a fond warmth washed some of the sadness away. She was reading a book of poetry by Roasario Castellenos, a favorite of hers and showing more than anything the mood she was in. Imelda was just grateful it wasn’t: ‘The Nine Guardians’.

“It’s late, _miha_ ,” Imelda said. “You’ll ruin your eyes if you don’t sleep.” It was an old joke between them but Victoria didn’t smile. She closed the book, bone fingers stark against the red cover. She seemed to want to say something but was holding back for whatever reason. Imelda patted the stool in front of the vanity.

“Come, it’s time for bed, _ni_ _ña._ ”

Victoria gave her a crooked smirk,but dutifully set the book aside and came to sit in the chair. Imelda pulled the pins from her granddaughters dark hair, letting it tumble to her lower back. She had beautiful hair, thick and black. Imelda set the pins aside and picked up the comb first, patiently getting out what few tangles there were before taking up the silver backed brush. The repetitive motion soothed her. The memory was even better and she could almost feel the silken strands of the hair against her fingers.

“I don’t like him,” Victoria said after a moment, though Imelda doubted it. Didn’t _want_ to like him perhaps.

“He is _familia_.”

“No he’s not.” She looked up at Imelda in the mirror, her dark eyes a reflection of his. “He’s not. He left you. He doesn’t _deserve_ this. It's not right, nor fair.”

“Oh, _mija_.” Imelda set aside the brush and hugged her granddaughter around the shoulders, resting her chin on her head. Victoria had always been concerned with fairness. Or rather had been set about by unfairness for most of her life. She’d wanted to be an architect and design grand buildings as a young girl. They had even paid for her to be sent to university.

But there had been no place for a woman there. It didn’t matter how bright or enthusiastic Victoria was-- she had been pushed down, told to go home, settle down, find a man. Imelda had almost gone over and given the Dean a lesson or two with the heel of her shoe, but it would have changed nothing.

“Life isn’t fair,” she murmured. “Nor is death. And that is why you have your _familia,_ so that you will always have someone to believe in you and be there for you, even when there is no one else.”

She liked to think that Victoria, if not completely satisfied with her life, had taken solace from coming back home and working in the shoe shop. She had always been good at structure and had gotten even better, Imelda had heard, before the cancer had taken her. A lot of their reputation grew from her sweet, strong _mija_ _’s_ innovations…

Victoria rested her hands against Imelda’s arm and if Imelda closed her eyes she could almost remember the warmth and touch of it, the slight calluses they all had…

“I will be here for you, Mamá Imelda,” she said. “No matter what.”

What a blessing her little granddaughter.

What a blessing her _familia._

“ _Gracias, mi coraz_ _ón_.” She kissed the top of her head. “I will be here for you, too. Always.” 


	6. Historia de Imelda: La Negra, 'Dark Lady'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change can be difficult, especially when much of what is changing is out of Imelda's hands. Still, some changes come with unexpected benefits. Imelda explores these to the fullest, even as circumstances change around her and a choice, bigger than one she's ever made, waits on the horizon.

Imelda storms down the road toward Santa Cecilia, her feet cracked and bleeding from the rough road, the shawl full of her things bouncing against her back. She is angry. No. She is furious. No… There is not even a word for this feeling that sits like a live coal at the core of her. In a month, it will be a year since she had first arrived in Santa Cecilia, yet this doesn’t feel like a homecoming. She scowls at the town as it appears on the horizon.

It had been nice for the first few months. She wouldn’t say she was happy there, she didn’t know the feeling, but it had been predictable if annoying. Every day Oscar and Filipe would study at the local parish school and come back to their room in _Se_ _ñora_ María’s house, either whining or excited or tired-- or if they aren’t home she knew they are out with Héctor. And so far they had come back alive, if guilty and one time all three covered with dirt and looking apologetic. They hadn’t told her why and she hadn’t seen Héctor for a few days after that so she decided it must have been bad and had been angry about it just on principle.

“Héctor,” she growls to herself, shiftinfg the shawl against her back. That boy-- Every day almost he’d show up in the padre’s kitchen, for breakfast or lunch or sometimes to have dinner with the man and tell him stories that made him laugh. She could thank Héctor for that. The padre had a nice laugh, musical and low and she enjoyed hearing it. She’d refused to eat at the high table, though. _Se_ _ñora_ María had said it wasn’t proper and she would be annoyed anyway at Héctor casually scarfing down food she had worked hard to make especially for the padre.

 In fact, Héctor had only been somewhat tolerable when there was a guitar in his hands and sometimes she could forget that she often wanted to break a shoe over his head when he played at the kitchen table after a meal, or she watched him in the plaza, eyes closed, fingers dancing over the strings of that beautiful guitar.

Imelda would have been fine living the rest of her life like that. Only her world had changed in September as Padre de León had come to give her some exciting news. Two positions had opened up in a promising mission school just outside of Mexico City and the diocese had offered Santa Cecilia a chance to fill it. It would be a great opportunity for the twins to get ahead in life.

 At first she had been totally against it. Completely against it. She didn’t know exactly how far away Mexico City was, but far enough to take them from her. Her and Filipe had argued.. No… Had _fought_ about it. At newly thirteen he thought he knew everything. He wanted to go somewhere different, somewhere exciting, he’d said, and it wasn’t her decision. She was his _hermana_ not his Mamá. She had told him she didn’t care and they would go over her dead body.

Padre de León had met her later, talked her down, and she couldn’t argue with that man. No matter how much she wanted to he was too kind and gentle for her to do much more than listen. It would be better for the boys there, he’d said. Children that went to that school and did well tended to find good jobs in the city afterwards, and he was sure the boys would succeed. After all, it wasn’t as if they would be gone forever. They would certainly come back during the summer holidays.

While she hadn’t forgiven Filipe, she had agreed, and so at the end of October on a cool grey day, they had gone seven hours to San Menas by cart to put the boys on a train. What a terrifying thing that was! It had seemed like some kind of demon, big and black, barreling toward them with black smoke and sparks billowing from its snout. She had nearly taken their hands and bolted back to the safety of the cart, but Padre de León had put a hand on her shoulder and she had remained.

 She remembers the hot air, like a giant breath, as the train came to a squealing stop, the sudden river of people flooding out of it and then…it had been time to say goodbye. A hug and kiss for Oscar and a furious hug and kiss for and from Filipe, and then they were gone, taken away by that thing, away from her. Oh she’d wanted to go with them but a young, unwed woman all alone in a large city was a recipe for disaster, Padre de León had said, and so she’d remained behind.

The next day, she had stood in the empty kitchen, waiting for them to come back for their lunch… but of course they hadn’t. Héctor had, though, she remembers, some of her fury soothing a little. He had come in, without saying a word, without even eating, and had played for her. Just for her. Like he was saying things she couldn’t, finding something in her she didn’t even have the words for and drawing it out.

Imelda remembers moving on something close to need, wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind, and resting her chin on his head and the softness of his hair. She remembers feeling the music move through him in faint vibrations and had closed her eyes, completely caught up in it.

 For a moment they had felt like one person, breathing in and out, the music swirling around them. It had been a moment she still didn’t know how to describe, the unbroken silence after seeming all the deeper for it. As if there was something else in Héctor she’d never seen. She’d had the strange desire to talk to him, find out more about him, had wanted to see him again…

She’d barely had a chance to sort through this idea when a letter arrived from the _Convento de las Hermanas del R_ _ío_. _La Superiora_ was dying, it had said, would Imelda come see her? And so Imelda had gone, missing _Dia de Muertos_ and the chance to hear Héctor play in the cemetery.

The convent had been hit by _banditos_ as they’d feared. The criminals had soon been ousted by the _Federales_ who had remained with the _hermanas_ for almost a week and been ‘little better than the _banditos_ ,’ _T_ _ía Superiroa_ had said with a sniff. By the time Imelda had arrived,  neither _banditos_ nor _Federales_ of any kind remained within the walls which had been left a shambles, the precious small library torn apart.

Imelda had remained to make _T_ _ía Superiora_ as comfortable as she could, then had been put in charge of managing the refugees from the countryside, then to teach a small class of village children their numbers and letters. During that time, she’d taken care of, and had fought with the irritating _la superiora_ at least once a week, for nearly seven months.

She should join the _convento_ , _T_ _ía Superiora_ had said. Which Imelda would not. Or should get married. Which Imelda would definitely not. Men were rough and irritating and seemed to want their way regardless of what she wanted. Even coming here she’d broken her left _chancla_ over a _bandito_ _’s_ head to get him out of her path. Anyway, the only man worth marrying was Padre de León who was kind and warm and handsome, and someone to whom she owed much. As he was a priest and couldn’t marry, she would be content to mind his house. One day, Imelda had even told _T_ _ía Superiora_ this, of her plans, thinking that because he was with the church, the old woman would approve. But she had just snorted and said:

‘That’ll be the day. You’d drive yourself out of your mind six months.’

And she had said she wouldn’t and _Le_ _ón Superiora_ had said she would and that if she just used common sense and become a _monja_ she wouldn’t have to worry about men and could yell at whomever she liked. They had had their worst fight yet and Imelda had almost left and _would_ have left had not _T_ _ía Superiora_ took a turn for the worse. Imelda had remained at her bedside for a week, hoping… But the old woman had slipped away without a word…

Her burial had been yesterday and the _hermanas_ had asked Imelda to stay, to become one of them, to help; but Imelda had left. She couldn’t _be_ there anymore. She couldn’t stand the coal in her gut any longer. She had to get-- somewhere. To do something. What that _is_ she doesn’t know.

No… Imelda lifts her head. She _does_ know. What she _needs_ is to take care of Padre de León’s household. That is what she has set her mind on and that is what she will do, she thinks, stomping the ground before hurrying on.

She passes _Se_ _ñora_ Flores’ farm, hearing the cluck of chickens-- and then not so long after that, the old _orphanato._ The black flag still hangs ragged above the empty building. It had been decided to move the remaining children elsewhere, for one thing, safely within the walls of Santa Cecilia, though more than one person had been uncomfortable about that. They could just live with it, Imelda thinks, turning her head aside and moving with a determined stride into the town.

The few people that are out in the hottest part of the day scurry out of her way like pigeons as she tramps through the streets. It’s strange, she’s been away from Santa Cecilia for longer than she’s been _in_ Santa Cecilia, but she knows it well still. Nothing much seems to have changed. She wends her way through to the center of the town. The first stop is _Se_ _ñora_ María’s house.

“I’m back!” she calls as she steps in, so the old couple won’t think they’re being burgled. Then she goes up to their room... her room, in the attic. The sight of the hot slanted room makes her throat knot. The mats the twins had slept on were still rolled up against the wall. After they’d arrived, Padre de León had offered to find the boys other places to stay, like the good man he was, but they had wanted to stay together back then as a _familia._ And now…

Imelda shakes her head. It will be cooler without them anyway, and she had gotten a letter almost every month from them so she knew they were alright. They were alright and she was alright and she was perfectly fine with her position in life. She sets her shawl on the bed, unknotting it and letting it spill open, searching through for the small hand mirror Oscar had gotten her in exchange for being a runner for a certain vendor.

_Ay_ , she’s a mess. Her braids are practically undone, her hair fly away, her dress travel stained. She can’t meet Padre de León like this! Her first step is fetching water, to wash her face and hands. Then she brushes her hair until it is loose and shining in the light before bounding it in braids around the crown of her head as well as a faded ribbon she’d found by the side of the road once. Finally a white dress, embroidered flowers on the skirt. It might be too showy for just going to work in the padre’s house, but it’s old and worn enough so that she’s sure she can get away with it. Finally she stuffs her stinging feet in an old pair of _chanclas_ that _T_ _ía Superiora_ had once used for gardening.

“ _Perfecto,_ ” she says, brushing out her dress and heading back down. _Se_ _ñora_ María is coming out of her room, blinking blearily up at her. She must just be up from her _siesta._

“Imelda? You’re back?”

“ _Sí_ ,” she says. “I’ll take care of Padre de León’s coffee and supper today.”

“There’s no need, _ni_ _ña_. You’ve had a long journey…” She frowns. “Does this mean that _Madre_ Sofia is--?”

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda says. “Rest today.” And before _Se_ _ñora_ María can say more, she’s back once more out into the light and heat of the day. The door to the kitchen of the cleric house is unlocked,t the kitchen empty and hollow feeling. Her gaze travels to the table where she had last seen Héctor, crying on his hair.

 That will change soon enough. He will come by and be a pest the moment he realizes she’s here, Imelda thinks as she ties an apron around herself. Before he shows up, then, she must make sure the padre has all he needs— and then some.

She takes a moment to breathe, center a hand over her hammering heart, before straightening and moving through the house toward the padre’s office. He never takes a _siesta, Se_ _ñora_ María had told her. Instead he works humbly and diligently through those quiet hours like a good man of God should.

He _is_ a good man, and handsome, too. Even now she can hear him talking through the closed door of his office and has to stop a moment to keep the smile from her face. What will he think of her if she looks _too_ eager to see him? Nothing good, she knows. When Imelda is sure she can look perfectly serene and calm, she knocks on the door, interrupting the voices.

“Come in,” Padre de León says. Imelda opens the door, pretending to not notice the surprised look on his face and the way he rises, one elegant fingered hand balanced on the desk.

“Imelda!” he says, shocked, and she is pleased at the way he says it. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“And who is this?” says a stout man in a meticulous suit that speaks of wealth.

“Ah, _Se_ _ñor_ Arango, forgive me… this is my other housekeeper, Imelda, who has been away for a while.” His brows draw over his clear gray eyes. “…Has _Madre_ Sofia--”

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda says, fighting to not sound short with him. “Would you care for coffee?”

“…That would be excellent,” Padre de León says, slowly returning to his seat, concern smoothing from his face though still knotted between his eyebrows. “ _Gracias_ , Imelda.”

She nods and turns, closing the door behind her before heading back to the kitchen. Once there, Imelda banks the coals in the oven until there is a small fire going, then fills a kettle from the pump outside before setting it on the plate at a slow heat. She will make _conchas_ as well, she decides. She doesn’t know if Padre de León has a sweet tooth or not, but if he does, he can’t help but love them.

She can imagine him smiling as he bites into one, she thinks, as she sets the bag coffee beans on the table. And he will look up at her, enjoying it, but unable to say anything because of his priestly vows. Still, one day, she thinks, getting the sugar too, perhaps in the dark of one night or the other… Where is the grinder?

He will look at her and -- where is it? Not in the pantry. Not on the shelf where it usually is. She can’t make him coffee without a grinder! She nearly kicks the counter out of frustration until she finally spots it on a high shelf.

He will look at her-- She reaches for it. It’s just beyond her fingertips. Grunting she leans on her stomach, straining, taking a swipe and only managing to get it back further.

He will look at her, she thinks through clenched teeth. And _say_ \--

A hand reaches up and easily fetches the grinder off the shelf. She can feel the heat of someone behind her. She turns and is suddenly face to face with a man, making her back up a bit against the counter. She has the feeling she knows him from somewhere. His nose and ears are large,  jaw finely angled, and lips thin but expressive. And his eyes-- a deep dark brown under thick black eyebrows and careless black hair.

“ _Hola_ , Imelda,” he says softly, voice warm and smooth, the use of her name shocking her out of it. Who does he think he is? Coming in here a complete stranger and saying her name like that? She was trying to have a _fantasia_ of Padre de León and not this… this… _idiota._

“Get out,” she says, bracing her hands against the counter. He looks confused.

“What?”

“Get out! And give that to me.” She snatches the grinder from his hand, moving to the table.

“Imelda, I--”

_Madre mio,_ why does he keep lingering, and why keep saying her name? She is trying to focus which she can’t do with him pestering her.

“Go!” she snaps, slamming the grinder on the table. He holds up his large hands as if to ward her off.

“Alright, alright,” he says and she glares after his broad shoulders as he does leave, shutting the door behind him. What nerve. And now she can’t even remember where she was. She has to cool the anger again somehow, because she can’t appear at Padre de León’s door seeming like she doesn’t want to be here.

The coffee grinding helps. At least it gives her something to do with her hands, but she can’t return to her thoughts on the Padre because her mind keeps returning to that man. Who is he? Why does he look so familiar? Probably someone about town. Even if he was, that didn’t excuse him from using her name without even a _Se_ _ñorita_ in front of it!

She takes a deep breath, then another, and keeps doing so, trying to train her face into the serene line it was before. By the time the coffee is ready she has somewhat managed it, perhaps in part of the heat from the oven and the tired burning behind her eyes and the way she aches. There’s no time to stop, no time to think. She arranges the coffee pot on a tray with two china cups and adds a plate of _coricos_ she found in a little covered basket that _Se_ _ñora_ María must have meant for the padre.

With her head held high in pride, she goes to the office once more, though the padre doesn’t rise when she comes in, even if he does offer her a small smile. His eyes are fixed on _Se_ _ñor_ Arango who is standing by the window, hands clasped behind him.

“It looks wonderful, _gracias_ ,” Padre de León says, sounding distracted, then holds up a hand before she can pour the coffee. “That will be all.”

The dismissal strikes hard, even if she doesn’t know why it should. It feels like a fist is clenching her heart, which is just ridiculous, what is wrong with her? The padre gives her a concerned frown and she realizes she’s been staring too long. Turning on her heel, she heads back to the kitchen, her mind feeling full of buzzing bees.

It’s horrible this feeling, she thinks as she makes some coffee for herself and paces back and forth in the kitchen, not daring to sit down. It will probably go away when she begins supper… Or, she can push it away early by cleaning. There has to be something in this house that needs a good thorough clean. She finishes the coffee and heads toward the broom closet, ready to give this place the dusting of its life.

 

 o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Something is not right. Imelda paces the kitchen, arms folded against her waist. She’s tried to dust and clean and straighten, even found a bed to be made in one of the other rooms; but she keeps coming back to the kitchen. There is something missing. Something she can’t quite grasp. It’s as if she’s waiting for something, something that should _be_ here but is _not._ It’s driving her to distraction.

Imelda glares out into the waning day, the streets filled with tired golden light. It would be easier to get her thoughts together if she could stop waiting for _him_ to show up. _Surely_ Héctor has heard by now that she is here. Santa Cecilia is small enough, _Se_ _ñora_ María had told her once, that everyone heard the same gossip twice.

Well if he shows up now he will be in trouble. She doesn’t have time to get food for him and start supper for the padre… and she doubts he’ll be invited to join with someone so well dressed and important looking as _Se_ _ñor_ whoeverheis. She will let Héctor nibble on the _coricos,_ she thinks, and that’s it. And if he wants any more he can go outside and buy it.

If he shows up.

And he had better.

Even if her boys are gone at least he is here, so why isn’t he _here?_ Why is it he worms his scrawny way in whenever she doesn’t want him around, but the one time she does, so she can feed him and get it over with, he’s not? There is a step behind her and she whirls, ready to tell him this-- But then has a sudden jolt when she sees it’s Padre de León, who is watching her with both eyebrows raised. A tight, sad, lost feeling twists through her and she banishes it, or tries, lifting her chin and clutching her skirt.

“You look exhausted, _ni_ _ña_ ,” he says kindly, moving to sit at the kitchen table.

“It’s all day waiting for that little _mococito_ to show up!”

“Héctor?” the padre asks with a chuckle. “Not so little any more.” He takes one of the _coricos._ She wants to snatch the cookie back. There are little enough left for that _idiota_ even if he does show up. He’d deserve it, she thinks for being so late. She snorts. Probably the only thing that had gotten bigger with Héctor was his ability to get into trouble and annoy her to bits. She grabs a broom and sweeps the kitchen clean for the second time.

“He was taking his _siesta_ here earlier,” the padre says. “I’m surprised he didn’t come get something to eat.”

Imelda stops, mid-sweep. That hadn’t even occurred to her. Could he have been here and not even _checked_ to see if she’d arrived? She hadn’t set any kind of day, she reminded herself, shoving the broom back in the closet and then viciously scrubbing the glistening sink. And it wasn’t as if he had ever waited for her before. And it wasn’t as if she _cared_. They had one good moment, but it was probably the twins he’d missed more than anything. That’s fine. It’s all fine. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t need him. She doesn’t need anyone. And even if she did, it would be a quiet responsible man like Padre de León and not a weasely _peque_ _ño niño_ who ate too much.

“I’m glad you’ve returned,” the padre says in his quiet responsible voice that she vastly prefers. “I should thank whoever brought you here.”

“I walked,” Imelda says shortly.

“All the way from the _convento?_ ” Padre de León seems surprised. “Imelda, that’s dangerous.”

“Mph.” Dangerous for the _bandito_ maybe, and what does it matter what happened so long as she arrived? She turns to him, hands on hips. “What do you want for supper?” His eyebrows climb higher and she realizes she probably shouldn’t have spoken to him so curtly. Once she can stop being angry, she will apologize. It’s not his fault after all.

“I’ve asked _Se_ _ñora_ María to make her specialty for _Se_ _ñor_ Arango.”

“Then I will help!” she says, trying not to feel the sting. It’s not against her ability after all, and she still has much to learn about food outside of a _convento_. He shakes his head.

“No, _hija._ Go home. Get some rest.”

She doesn’t want to go back to the _Se_ _ñora’s_ house! Nor does she want to get rest! The moment she lets go… The moment that happens then… No! She lifts her head and only just stops herself from stomping her foot.

“I’m fine.”

“Then take a walk,” Padre de León says kindly. “Or go listen to the _músicos_ in the plaza.” He meets her eyes. “I appreciate your hard work, but I don’t need you tonight, Imelda.”

Fine!

She takes off the apron and slaps it on the table before leaving, stalking out the kitchen door and into the fading warmth. She doesn’t want to go back to the house, nor listen to the _músicos_ and taking a walk-- what is the point of that? She’s walked all night!

She will look for Héctor, she decides. And when she finds him--

She won’t--

She won’t be angry with him. She won’t. Not even a little.

She will just -- just say hello and, perhaps tell him of the twins and then be on her way.

He is not in the plaza, or around the house where he is staying with his friend and Imelda is too annoyed still to ask where he is, not trusting her own voice. The last place she knows to look is the _Cantina de R_ _ío_.

If he’s not there, then…she will just wait until he does decide to visit the cleric house. Possibly only when the twins return in a month or two. That’s just the nature of life, she thinks, lifting her head high. Boys want to be friends with boys and they are good friends; even if Héctor finds trouble more often than not. She is a woman and so apart and she can handle that.

Still, even having decided this, she slows to a stop as she approaches the cantina. She almost doesn’t want to go on. To see if he is there. To see if he isn’t. She wonders if it’s alright to just…talk to him for a little while. No, this is probably just a fool’s errand… She should just go …back…

What is that?

Imelda closes her eyes, tilting her head as a melody comes swirling sweetly through the air, small like a songbird and delicate. She wants to reach out and touch it, to see the notes spill and wind through her fingers. Someone talking loudly nearby nearly breaks the spell so she opens her eyes and moves to the open door of the cantina, peering in.

That man is there, sitting on a table, playing the guitar. A sudden flash of irritation goes through her as she sees him; followed by an even deeper flash of anger as she realizes he’s playing Héctor’s guitar. She takes an angry step in. If he’s stolen it from--

\--from--

Imelda rests a hand on her collarbone, watching him play… She watches the way he cradles the guitar and his fingers brush the strings, pulling out that sweet melody-- the way his eyes are closed and a small wrinkle has formed between his eyebrows, as his lips move occasionally, mouthing words that are only in his head.

He is…not so little anymore. She can see now the _ni_ _ño_ she used to know, in the big ears and the thick brows--though everything else about him seems to have changed. Even the whisker, no more than a smudge of dirt on his chin back then, has turned into a scattering of sparse hairs.

Teto… is becoming a man…

He must be older than the twins than she thought…

Though that thought makes her heart sink even further. She wraps her arms around herself and leans against the doorway. She’d forgot somehow that boys grew up. One day they will , too. She would probably not even see it happen. They would be different, near strangers, and she would be the same as she always was. Boys will grow up and go their own way, _T_ _ía Superiroa_ had told her. Well they would, and they had, and one day they would be completely apart from her.

She wants to leave, she has nowhere she wants to go-- so instead she remains and watches, with the rest of the cantina, everyone seemed to be caught in the same appreciative quiet. The last few notes of the pretty song fade into stillness and Héctor opens his eyes, looking disoriented as if just coming up for air. Almost at once the rapt audience cheers, mostly men here who whistle and clap. Héctor laughs.

“You guys will cheer at anything…” he says, lifting a bottle to take a sip from it ,but she can tell he’s pleased.

“Juanita next!” a man calls.

“Juanita, Juanita!” chants another. Héctor grins in a bright easy way, cheeks dimpling in a way she’d never noticed before.

“Alright, alright.” His fingers dance to an opening of another song she’s not heard. “Well~~ Everyone knows-” He starts, she shifts out of the way of someone coming in.

“Imelda!” he says.

She jolts, shocked at the sound of her name and even more so to find those brown eyes locked on hers. No!, No she’s not ready for this… She-- she doesn’t know how to--

The men begin to turn on their benches and look and Héctor slides off the table and starts toward her.

She can’t. She _can_ _’t--_! Imelda picks up her skirts and hurries into the street, hearing him call out:

“Wait!” behind her. She doesn’t wait. She moves as fast as she can, though can’t force her body into more than a jog, then a brisk walk, a slow one… Soon she has to stop. Almost to the entrance of Santa Cecilia, but not quite through. The twilight is starting to thin the sky blue and except for a few stragglers, the road is empty, leading to nowhere. She can hear him come to a stop behind her.

“ _Lo siento_ , Imelda,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to see you.”

_Idiota! **Idiota**! _ How dare he say something like that? She wants to throw a pebble at him, she wants to hold onto him and not let go. She remains right where she is.

“…Padre told me that you left because your _Madre Superiora_ was dying…” He hesitates, then adds. “I’m sorry she’s gone…”

Oh, why did he have to say that? She squeezes her eyes shut tight, pressing her knuckles against her lips, trying to fight it.

“Do you want me to leave?” he says. She shakes her head.

“…Do you want me to stay?”

She shakes her head again. She doesn’t know _what_ she wants! She wants things to stop changing. She wants something… something… something to hold _on_ to, for just a few moments, just to keep the world from spinning out of her control. There is silence and for a moment she thinks she’s alone… Then ‘La Llorona’ drifts sadly and sweetly into the night. Imelda grits her teeth. She _hates_ it when he calls her that!

She turns to glower at him, then glares even more, as she sees him sitting on a white stone bench, playing for her with gentle fingers. This is not the Héctor she knows. It is, but it isn’t. It’s too much of one and not enough of the other. He is too old and too certain and how can he be her _hermanito_ if he looks like that? She can’t make her mind bend that far. It’s not fair. She didn’t want him to go from her, too. He gives her a small smile and nods at her, as if encouraging her to sing. She can’t sing. She can barely breathe with this feeling knotting her heart.

Still she doesn’t want to leave either and she doesn’t want the music to stop. But she can’t listen with him watching her watching him. Fine then. There is one way she can do this. She moves around him, hesitates, then slips her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on his hair. It’s a little different. She’s less leaning over him and more leaning against him. It feels good.

She closes her eyes, the music surrounding her, filling her, picking loose the knot in the center of her chest and suddenly she is crying. Tears slip out with no way to stop them and she clasps her hands around him, her cheek pressed against his soft hair. He begins to sing softly in his warm, clear, voice.

“Sorrow and that which is not sorrow, Llorona; Everything is sorrow for me.. Sorrow and that which is not sorrow, Llorona; Everything is sorrow for me…”

She joins with him on the next line, though her voice is creaky and breathy and nothing anyone would want to hear.

“Yesterday, I cried because I wanted to see you, Llorona. Now I cry because I saw you.. Yesterday, I cried ‘cause I wanted to see you, Llorona. Now I cry because I saw you…”

She falters and stops before the last verse, grateful that he does too. It’s about La Llorona’s lover, or whoever they are, always loving her. And that.. Well… She doesn’t know if she’ll ever feel something like that. Right now she feels weary and bruised, inside and out, but oddly content. Comforted.

Héctor is different, yes, but it doesn’t seem terrible.. In fact, she almost likes it more, though why she feels this way she can’t say and doesn’t matter. She listens to the music, smiling as he shifts from La Llorona into the gentle song he was playing earlier. She likes it. Wants to learn more about it as he plays, feel it unfold in her chest, sweet and sad and songbird like.

“You’ve changed a bit, _bandito_ ,” she murmurs. …That name will have to change, too. He is no longer a _bandito._ He is something else. Undefined. Unknowable. Like the river, she thinks, holding him just a little closer. He smells different, too. Or maybe it’s just less like dirt. And she’s not sure if she likes the change, but she’s not sure if she dislikes it either.

“ _Sí_ , I’ve grown a beard, too. _Mira, mira!_ ” He looks up at her, and though she’s not entirely happy with being denied her perch, it’s not terrible either to look down at him. He bounces his eyebrows at her. “What do you think?”

“Of that?” She runs a finger against his chin, wondering why the faint tickling sensation feels so nice. “I thought it was dirt.”

His deadpan expression is so sudden it makes her giggle. _Idiota_. She wonders if she should take it back but then he’s smiling too and it slips her mind. What an interesting feeling, this warmth.

“I don’t see you laugh much,” he says. “It’s nice.”

“No?” She’s laughed before in front of him. She’s sure she has. Anyway it doesn’t matter. She’s too tired to even get angry. Instead she absently trails her finger along his slender jaw, liking the way his eyes widen and how he swallows. “Maybe you haven’t been paying enough attention.”

As she speaks she traces the delicate arching ridge of his ear.

“You _think_ so.” The sudden squeak in his voice makes her laugh again and she has the strange desire to rub her nose against his. Perhaps it’s because she’s overtired, overwrought, over everything this day has given her. Except this… This is nice… This must be what a blessing feels like. She explores the bone of his cheek with her fingertips, the slant of his nose. He swallows again and the strings of the guitar make a soft slipping whine as he adjusts his grip.

 What does she want…?

 What is this…?

Drunken laughter echoes down the street and she lifts her head, startled. The sudden movement makes a swirl of dizziness go through her and she closes her eyes. _Ay,_ she’s tired. If she isn’t careful, she’ll end up falling asleep right here.

“Imelda?” Héctor says, sounding concerned. She smiles at him.

“No _, te preocupes._ ” She’s fine. She’s always fine. She just needs sleep. Imelda moves away from him, already missing the warmth, the presence, not wanting to back to the empty room alone, yet having no choice. It will be easier now at least, she thinks. She imagines it won’t take much more than he head hitting the pillow. And tomorrow…

She turns back to look at him. He’s still a little scrawny, now that she looks at him, all slender and wide eyed as he watches her, guitar held in a loose grip.

“Come visit tomorrow?” she asks.

“ _Sí_ _…_ ”

…Tomorrow, she thinks, will be wonderful.

 

 o.o.o.o.o.o

 

It is awful. She is baking in her own bed and she barely move. There isn’t a part of her that isn’t sore or aching or chafed. At least she doesn’t have to wake to calls to prayer or worry every day what fight she will have _T_ _ía Superiora_ next. Now that she’s had time to think, because there is little else she can do in the dogged heat of the afternoon when she can’t move, she feels a little better about it. Not the fight, perhaps, but that the old woman went peacefully without pain— the long illness that had ravaged her finally setting her soul free. Will she cross the marigold bridge, Imelda wonders? Or go straight to heaven?Either way she feels sorry for the residents. _T_ _ía Superiroa_ could give a talking to to God.

She also feels better about the twins… Her beloved boys… Imelda rolls her head to the side, her neck the only part that isn’t stiff, and looks at the letters they’d sent. Oscar talking about friends they’d made and poetry while Filipe tells her of the town and how he wishes he knew how to do Héctor’s chicken trick— something he’s never explained and Imelda isn’t sure she wants to know.

…and Héctor himself… How strange… It doesn’t seem real now in the light of day. That he looked that way… that she had touched him. She glances at her fingertips, wondering if they belonged to someone new. Perhaps it had been a sort of waking dream. She’s never had that kind of feeling before. That kind of …wanting for something she can’t even explain. She’s usually very good at explaining things to herself.

Perhaps—

Something hits her hard in the shoulder, scattering her thoughts. She hisses and rubs the spot, hearing whatever it is clatter to the floor. With a groan, she pulls herself to the edge of the bed and looks over just as something else goes skimming over hear head and dings the wooden pitcher. What in the world? Peering down once again she spots a pebble. Is someone throwing rocks in her window? Why? Irritated, she gathers her shawl about her shoulders, going to the window and narrowing her eyes at the stupid man who has just let loose another stone…sending it straight for her face.

“ _Ay!_ ” she squeaks, narrowly dodging it and hearing it clack against the wall. Héctor winces and holds up his hands.

“ _Lo siento,_ Imelda,” he says. It’s amazing how quickly things can change, but more so that they don’t. Though Héctor looks the same as he did last night he is still the same _chingaquedito._

“What are you _doing_?” she hisses, throwing the pebble back at him as hard as she can.

“ _Yi!_ ” he gets out of the way just in time, a spark striking the cobblestone where the rock hit. He’s lucky it isn’t his head.

“I heard you were sick,” he says, hands still in the air. “I wanted to get your attention. I would have come to the front door but ahhh…” he rubs the back of his neck. “ _T_ _ía_ María and me don’t see eye to eye…”

She sighs. She can’t blame _Se_ _ñora_ María for it really. Also peering out into the sun is starting to give her a headache.

“What do you want, Héctor.”

He gives her a bright and goofy grin that she wants to hate more than she does.

“I thought you might be lonely… So I brought you a present. Look out!” She notices he’s swinging a rope in his hands and she moves well away from the window as the rough thing flops over the windowsill and he calls from outside:

“Grab it!”

“You gave me a rope?” she says, coming back with it in hand, only to see him tying a cloth covered basket to it. It had better not be something stupid or whatever it was she is  going to hit him with it. She pulls the basket up and sets it on the sill, hesitating as whatever it is beneath the cloth moves. If that’s some frog or rodent… From below, Héctor gives her an encouraging grin and she pulls back the cloth. There is a tiny kitten inside, silver with black stripes and a purple ribbon around its neck. It mews at her, staring with slightly crossed green eyes. Imelda picks it up, rubbing her cheek against the short soft fur. The kitten purrs.

“Do you like her?” Héctor asks.

“Mm.” She does. How can she not? He grins up at her. She watches him. The grin fades and then he’s just staring. She wonders what he’s looking for. She wonders what he sees. She feels like a mess, but also sort of wild and untamed with her hair around her shoulders, loose and uncombed.

“ _Sí_ _…_ ” he murmurs with no prompting whatever.

“ _Sí_ _…_ ” she repeats, teasing. He doesn’t even seem to notice. She sets the kitten on her shoulder, smiling a bit as it takes a pounce at her hair, and continues to watch him, the sun shining on that dark hair, his eyes fixed on hers. She wishes she had something to give to him, but she doesn’t know what he likes other than music and food. Perhaps she’ll fix him something delicious. If she felt like she could get downstairs, she’d do it now-- She wants to, is tempted to anyway, go down and see him-- or somehow be able to grab him by the collar and pull him up just so she can look at him.

A door closes somewhere and he blinks, as if coming out of a dream.

“ _Sí,_ wonderful! Ah, listen, I’m going to San Menas for a day or two. Ernesto is getting a little _loco_ around here. I think because he called it off with Carmen and she can be a little…” he makes a gesture. “…You know?”

No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t even know who Carmen is. Nor does she care. It occurs to her that he won’t be visiting her in the kitchen after all. At least not for a day or two… What does she care if he is or not? Only she does. Which makes it even more annoying.

“Don’t miss me too much, eh?” he says, grinning in a ridiculously charming way.

“I won’t even notice you’re gone,” she says, not quite meaning it, almost trying to tease him but it comes strange and complicated from her mouth. He laughs sheepishly, kicking the dirt.

“ _Ay._ Well… I’ll come see you anyway, if that’s alright?”

She nods, offering no more. He rubs the back of his neck, picking up the guitar case. He is going to go, she realizes. She doesn’t want to see it. She turns away from the window.

“Imelda!” he calls. For the second time her heart lifts, though not as strongly as the first. She half turns back to the window. He is giving her one of those wincing grins. “Caaan I have the rope back? I sort of borrowed it.”

Borrowed or ‘borrowed’? She’s not sure she wants to know. She unties it from the basket and lets it fall to the ground below; turning away once more.

“And the basket?” he calls. She rolls her eyes and pushes it out the window, too. She expects for him to call out a third time, if only to say goodbye-- and she half expects he’ll ask for her to return the kitten too…There is silence and when she peers over her shoulder out the window, he’s gone.

 It’s fine. This is perfectly alright. What does she care? She has a kitten to look after who is currently trying to climb in her hair. She plucks it away and rubs her nose against the soft pink one.

“Well, Sofia,” she says to the kitten, taking a moment to see if she likes the name and she does, even if it makes something twinge in her chest. “Let’s get you settled in.”

And if she sees Héctor or not after this… well… it doesn’t really matter.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 Imelda is restless. It is a lazy afternoon and there is nothing more to do in the cleric’s house, not for an hour or so at least. She has cleaned every room in the house and swept and scrubbed the kitchen floor. _Se_ _ñora_ María has gone back to her house to take a rest and has left dinner preparations to Imelda, perhaps because _Se_ _ñor_ Arango has finally left. Whatever the meeting was about, the padre seems pleased with the outcome and has been in a cheerful mood today, humming and singing to himself. Before she would have found that enchanting. Now, even as she appreciates his voice, the fondness for his eyes and other things has gone a little flat and she can’t imagine why.

Even though it’s still a little early, Imelda grabs a bowl to shell the pinto beans that the Señora bought fresh from the market this morning. It seems like a night for _frijoles de olla,_ a simple, almost lazy meal; but the padre never seems to mind when he’s on his own. It is another day, same as the res, only with less to do. It isn’t bad, not even difficult. Certainly it’s _much_ easier than trying to help a shambling _convento_ stitch itself back together. And why not take care of the padre? He’s a good man and a kind one, but the more that she thinks of doing the same cleaning; day in and day out, even for such a good and kind man, a stone settles in her throat. There has to be more to life than _this_.

There is a rattle at her feet and Imelda smiles as she shifts her skirt aside to watch Sofia play with one of the discarded husks. Though it is almost as if _T_ _ía Superiora_ is watching her, too, with a smirk as if to say: ‘So I told you.’ Imelda snorts and tears the pod she’s holding, clicking her tongue as the beans go everywhere. _T_ _ía Superiora_ has told her nothing.

Perhaps she’s not meant to remain at Padre de León’s house forever, but the _convento_ is even more stifling. Going back to that place of solemn faced women had made it feel like she was drowning. Here, at least, she can breathe. So she’ll just have to be content with it. Anyway, soon her beloved brothers will return and she can fill her day with their lives-- for a little while at least.

She sighs letting her hands fall on her lap. When they grow up… When they have wives of their own as they will, _T_ _ía Superirora_ had warned, they will certainly not want Imelda interfering with their lives. She is a _hermana_ after all, as Filipe had said. Not a Mamá. For a moment she wishes she had a mamá of her own… Someone to rest against and ask for advice, someone to show her what she could do and could not. But she has none, Imelda thinks, straightening. The future is itself and right now the twins still depend on her to be the strong one, so the strong one she will be.

Imelda continues to shell the beans, a soft warm wind rolling in through the kitchen door like a blessing, stirring her hair. A moment later it brings with it the sound of whistling, that lifts her spirits, though she tries to stop it. Tries to quell the feeling flooding through her. She _hates_ it when he calls her that, she thinks, fighting hard to keep a smile from her face as the whistling gets closer. Also it’s been a week in total and not that two days that he had said it would be, and so she is not going to speak to him at all. She has set herself in this and a moment later, Héctor appears in the doorway, filling the kitchen with his presence. He looks pleased with himself.

“ _Hola_ , Imelda,” he says, lingering there as if uncertain. “I’m here…” And he holds up a dahlia, petals a soft deep red on the inside and laced with orange around. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” she says, then on impulse pushes a pile of bean pods across the table. “Help.”

Héctor sits, hesitantly lying the dahlia on the table. She sweeps it up and tucks it in her hair as if it’s nothing at all and watches the dimples appear at the corners of his mouth. What an easy face he has to read. A thinner face, she can’t help but notice, as if he’s not getting enough to eat.

 There is still some chili left over from lunch and she ladles it into a bowl for him, his eyes on her as she cuts up a quince to put in it. She’s seen that look on him before, the hungry, hollow-cheeked waiting.  She pushes the bowl over to him and watches him bolt it down in five bites, scraping it clean with his spoon. She gives him another bowl, the last of it, and he bolts that one down, too, before leaning back and patting his stomach.

“Ah _gracias._ That was _perfecto._ _”_  

As he leans back, she realizes what’s missing that’s been bothering her.

“You don’t have your guitar,” she says, watching him pick up a bean pod and look at it back and forth as if he’s never shelled a bean in his life.

“Ernesto needed it to practice…” He frowns as if he’s not too happy with this, but it could also be because he still can’t figure out how to get the pod open. “He’s got a good voice but his guitar skills… theeey… need a little work.”  She gives a small sigh of relief. He continues to struggle with the bean pod and she shakes her head.

“ _Mira_ ,” she says, and when she has his attention, shows him how to open it with slight pressure and the edge of her fingernails. He watches her open a second one, and a third, like a cat will watch a mouse hole. As if he has the nerve to pounce, she thinks, pressing her lips together to suppress a giggle. But pounce on what?

“Did you enjoy San Menas?”

“Ah, _Sí, Sí_ ,” he says, fumbling with his pod a moment before getting his fingers around it. He works at it clumsily but gently and she can’t help but watch from under her eyelashes. “It’s amazing. A great place. Cantinas, restaurants, _chica bonitas_ as far as the eye can see…” He grins, leaning back in his chair.

“Is that so,” she says, not at all caring about any _chica bonitas_ he might meet. “Shell that already or give it to me.”

“Ah, _lo siento._ ” He attacks the pod again, bursting it open and sending beans flying everywhere. She wants to be annoyed at it, yet can’t keep from smiling a little as he yelps and makes a grab for the flying bean. _Idiota_.

“What else was there?” she asks.

“So much. There are even rumors that a theater will open but _Se_ _ñor_ Ruiz doesn’t think anyone has the _dinero_ to scrape together, not to mention the class.” He laughs. “He’s thinking of opening up a little place down by the train station with simple food and _musica._ ” He grins, shaking his head. “ _Chale_ , right? I can’t believe it. If he can pull his head out of the bottle maybe, but eh, if he does, we might have a shot outside of a tent show to make it big….”.

She can’t help but watch him talk, shelling beans as he goes and getting better with each one. The world he is from… so rich and colorful. Listening to rumors about big things happening and having opinions on whether they will happen or not. Perhaps it’s a simple thing, Imelda thinks, feeling slightly smaller. She’s rarely heard any rumors aside from what _Se_ _ñora_ María tells her of people she doesn’t even know. But then…who does she know? Anyway, anyone she knows can’t be more exciting than the people in San Menas.

“Make it big?” she asks, leaning over to scoop up his small pile of beans. She wants to raise her hand instead and touch the inside of his wrist as he’s working on another pod but keeps herself from that small strange desire.

“To be _músicos_!” he says, his eyes shining. “To travel all over the world and play and sing and dance!” It sounds like a beautiful dream. She can’t help but be swept up in his enthusiasm. “And writing songs, too. I want them to be played everywhere. Even across the sea. So people can be like, hey, I know that _buen chico_. Did you hear his latest? Also, you know, if you’re famous?” He bounces his eyebrows. “Drinks are _gratis._ _”_

She can’t help laughing a little at his expression.

“Buut right now we’re two nobodies from Santa Cecilia. I say, I’m Héctor Rivera and they say, the luggage is over there _muchacho_ , snap to it. Still…who knows…” He sighs, as if not knowing makes him content, which she doesn’t understand at all and finally seems to notice her. A smile crosses his face that takes away some of the chill that had settled inside her.

“Anyway, it’s a huge  town. Twice as big as Santa Cecilia. Three times! There’s always something going on…” He grins, meeting her eyes. “You should come with me one day, Imelda. You would love it.”  The invitation makes the chill vanish completely, dropping away from her bones, leaving her feeling soft and warm like _conchas_ just out of the oven. She doesn’t know if she wants to go to such a place, or even what she would do in such a place. It feels like a place that big would swallow her up completely. Also the twins will need her when they arrive…

Still, she feels strangely pleased that he’d asked, that he wants her to be there. Héctor pushes another pile of beans over to her and she rests her hand on his on impulse before he can pull it back. It’s nice to touch somehow, big compared to her own. She strokes her fingertips over the bones of the back of his hand that she can feel easily under the warm skin. It feels good to touch him, watching his eyes watch hers.

“Tell me more,” she says, absently rubbing her thumb against that soft valley of skin between his own thumb and hand. “What else is there San Menas?” His fingers twitch a little under her but he makes no move to pull his hand away.

“ _Well_ ,” he squeaks and she giggles as he clears his throat. “Well… there’s a church…”

“Mmhm…” she says with a soft hum,

“And… a market…” He has to clear his throat again and it makes her want to laugh. It’s hot. There’s a table in the way. Though in the way of what she still isn’t sure. But… maybe… She stands, leaning toward him. …If she can get a little closer… He watches her, head leaning back, hair falling softly across his forehead, lips parting.

“ _Ahem_.” Padre de León is standing in the doorway. Héctor wrenches back so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. Imelda straightens and quickly brushes her hair behind her ear, heat staining her face— She is embarrassed and a little annoyed at being interrupted. Why did he have to show up when she was getting so close? With a huff, she gathers Sophia from where she was about to escape outside and stuffs the little kitten gently in her pocket.

“Padre!” Héctor says with a half laugh. “Nice to see you… _”_

“Nice to see you, too, Héctor,” the padre says, sounding amused. Then to her: “Imelda can you see if there are any avocados left in the market?”

No, she wants to say. She does not. She wants to stay here and he can get them himself. That’s rude however, and to the padre besides who has been nothing but kind to her.

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda says, picking up a basket and heading for the door. She wants Héctor to follow. To walk beside her, even if he doesn’t say anything, though he inevitably will.

“Tell me about your trip,” Padre de León says and the door shuts. Imelda grits her teeth at the sound. She is getting _tired_ of being shut out and left behind. _T_ _ía Superiora,_ the twins, even Padre de León… It’s like she’s being pushed somewhere and she doesn’t like it. She will _deal_ with it, Imelda thinks, lifting her head. She won’t let a thing like that even get under her sk--

“Imelda!”

She startles at her name and turns to see Héctor hurrying after her. A complicated emotion bolts through her but most of it is that he is the most annoying _m_ _úsico_ in Mexico.

“What are you doing?” she asks sharply, he can’t have ended the conversation with the padre that easily! He stops short, seeming uncertain.

“I wanted-- to come with you.”

That-- _That--!_ She sets her jaw and marches back toward him.

“Is-- that ok _ay-_ _”_ His voice comes out in a yelp as she grabs him by one of the suspenders and hauls him with her, furious. That has to be it, isn’t it? This emotion raging through her? She’s not sure but she’s determined to do something about it. She finds an alley, nothing but a narrow breath between two buildings, barely enough for two people, and pulls him inside, shoving him against the wall.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He holds up his hands.

No, no waiting. Sofia stirs in her pocket and she lifts the tiny kitten out.

“Here,” She says, gently thrusting the kitten at him. He jerks a bit, as if he’s shocked for some reason and takes the kitten in one hand.

“I--” he starts. Imelda braces a hand against the wall and kisses him. It’s not a good kiss. She remembers some of the novices when she was younger talking about how kisses could be the most wonderful things. This is not so wonderful. Their teeth click and his nose gets in the way as every part of him gets in the way at some point. In fact it’s largely unsatisfying.

She leans back, snorting an irritated breath and looks up at him. He’s a few inches taller than her and being pinned by that dazed look so close is doing odd things to her insides. Even more so when Héctor lets out a breath and leans down, tentatively, as if he isn’t sure. She’s not entirely sure either. There is a certain thrill that goes through her as his breath brushes over her face, but then his nose bumps into her cheek and when she finally manages to get her own head in the angle to avoid all that, it’s just a hard pressure, though not as hard as hers had been.

Grunting, Imelda puts a hand to his chest and gently pushes him back against the wall, drumming her fingers against his collarbone. He laughs a bit and she can feel it vibrate through her hand which just makes her want to kiss him again. Except that doesn’t work so why the urge?

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking. C _állate_.”

He _c_ _állates_ and she wishes she could figure out a way to make him stop looking at her like that too, the warm eyes, the dimples, it’s distracting and not helping the problem. So what is it? Why does this have to be the most frustrating--

“Hey…” he says and when she looks back, he kisses her, tilting his nose out of the way for once. The kiss is soft. Much softer than before. His large hand comes to fit tentatively at the small of her back and her fingers curl by themselves into the fabric of his shirt. Oh… That’s better… That’s nice… A strange thrill is going through her, like the vibration of strings, the hum of music. She wants more.

He pulls back but she isn’t done and rises up to meet him, dropping the basket so she can slide that hand against the back of his neck, pulling him to her. She makes sure that she is gentle and soft in the movement, the kiss. Again. A third time, pressing a little further, coming a little closer, parting her lips under his to taste his breath.

_Ay_ _…_ The fringe of his hair is tickling annoyingly at the edge of her hand, so she pushes her fingers into it, feeling it soft against her palm. She hums against his lips and slides her other hand from his chest to around his neck so she can lean fully up against him. That’s nice too. He’s so lean but solid and there’s something else about it... Something she can’t name… Imelda lets that feeling grow at its own pace, more invested in the present, stroking and lightly tugging his hair, boldly tasting his lower lip with the tip of her tongue and feeling his fingers twitch against her back.

Suddenly Héctor jerks back from her, sucking in a hissing breath. “ _Ah_!”

“Mm?” She’s so dazed it takes her a moment to realize that Sofia is trying to wriggle away and has left tiny red streaks on his hand from her claws. Imelda clicks her tongue and takes the kitten from him.

“Bad _gato,_ ” she says, putting Sofia in the basket and holding the basket on her hip. “Let me see.” She holds out his hand for his and he obediently lets her take it. The cuts aren’t at all deep and seem like they’ll be fine. She smiles a little and presses her lips near one of the scratches as if to make it better, but mostly to make his fingers twitch.

“Wow,” he says as if from a distance.

“Hmm.” She leans up and kisses him again. She wants to slip back into that light wonderful moment but with the basket on her hip it pulls her back to the present. Sofia will try to climb out and she still needs to search for avocados for the padre. Thinking of him though…

“You should go back,” she tells him, kissing him again, stroking the side of his neck with her thumb. “The padre wanted to talk to you.”

“ _Sí_ , but--”

“No,” she says, meeting his eyes, kissing him again, a third time. “You should respect him. He’s a kind man who wants to look out for you.” And that’s important. That’s _rare._ To find someone who will do that. The padre is so good that Héctor is free to do what he wants without being pushed around here or there, so he should cherish it.

“But--”

She silences him with another kiss, a fifth, a sixth. She traces his neck under the collar of his shirt until he shudders and takes her hand. Imelda pulls back, unsure of what to make of that. It doesn’t matter right now.

“Will you go see him? _Por favor_?”

 “ _Sí_.” He breathes a laugh. “Anything for you, Imelda.” And kisses the side of her finger. It’s like she’s bitten unexpectedly into a fresh lemon, the bright taste racing through her and pulling the air right out from her lungs. She snatches her hand back, holding it to her throat. How dare he do something like that when she still has avocados to get? He winces and rubs the back of his neck.

“Should I go?”

“ _Sí,_ ” she says, still feeling breathless. Before he can go far, she grabs his collar and pulls him down for another kiss; open mouthed, seeking. There is a faint thud and the sudden lightness of the basket tells her Sofia has escaped. She lets Héctor go with a little push and turns away, scooping up the kitten as she goes and tucks her back into the basket. Her head is spinning. All of her is spinning. She can still feel him on her lips, on her finger.

“YAAAAHAAHIIIIIII!” he shouts behind her, the wild noise bouncing off buildings. She turns to look over her shoulder and sees him dancing back into the street, making her laugh, heat flashing through her cheeks. Even looking at him makes her want to pull him back into the shadows so she turns back the way she was going, heading toward the market with a happy song humming through her.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Imelda fans herself as she sits outside _Se_ _ñora_ María’s house, glaring absently at the flickering clouds in the distance. A thunderstorm is rolling in, bringing with it humidity that makes her hair curl and sweat bead on her neck even from just sitting here. It’s been a few long, frustrating, weeks. The letters from the twins still sit in her lap, unanswered as of yet. They are short. Even Filipe’s. She feels they are hiding something from her, but can’t guess at what. More annoying still, she doesn’t know how to answer them. Back at the _convento_ she could at least write them stories about what was happening with this _hermana_ or that one, or of the people from the villages that came by to offer help, but here, the most she did was clean and cook and come back to the house.

She can tell them about Héctor, but she somehow doesn’t know what to say about that yet, and lately it’s been irritating too. He had been coming by nearly every day since the alleyway, but he’s not there for more than a few moments before being pulled away by Padre de León or shooed out by _Se_ _ñora_ María. Otherwise she’s kept too busy to see him, and when she’s _not_ busy, he’s gone off to San Menas again, seeming to spend more time there than here. She is beginning to hate that place, if only because, when he comes back, he always looks a little thinner than before.

Imelda sighs. That _idiota_ aside, that restlessness is still there inside her that she doesn’t even think kissing will drive away. It’s only grown the longer she’s been here. If she can figure out what it is, how to take care of it, to quell it or ignore it, it wouldn’t matter. But it’s there like an itch she can’t scratch, or a hunger she doesn’t know how to satisfy.

The squall of a baby comes from inside the house, making annoyance twist in her chest once more but she quickly dismisses it. The _ni_ _ña_ can’t help if she’s hot and tired and frightened by the amount of people in the house. It’s the _Se_ _ñora_ ’s birthday today and so her three daughters and their husbands and their children and one overwhelmed great grandchild have come to see her.

 They are polite to her but there is not enough room in the kitchen, nor in the house, it seems. Nor does she want to be in there even if they wouldn’t turn her out. It annoys her to see them in a way she can’t understand. All the hugging and laughter, the children being cared for and indulged-- one of the granddaughters, tired from her pregnancy, leaning on the shoulder of her mother who strokes her hair. It would be nice, she thinks, to have a shoulder like that. Not that she needs one.

But she needs _something._

Imelda folds up the letters once more and tucks them safely in her top before leaning back, wondering if she should go inside and fetch Sofia. The younger children love her though and the kitten does love the attention. Imelda sighs and leans against the wall, watching the thunderstorm. There is a scrape of a foot beside her and she sighs again as she can see Pablo coming to loom over her out of the corner of her eye. He is _Se_ _ñora_ María’s oldest grandson and always seems to be in her shadow as if he wants to ask her something that she wishes he would go ahead and ask.

“Would… you like something to drink?” he mutters.

“No, _gracias._ ”

“Something to eat?”

“No, _gracias._ ” She wants him to go away. Or at least loom somewhere else so she could be alone with her thoughts. There is a faint cheer rising up over the town, carried by the wind. She lifts her head, wondering what could be going on. Pablo grunts.

“I can’t believe those _mariachi_ are playing on a Saturday night.” He folds his arms. “Everyone will dance all night and be too tired and drunk to come to mass, but what do you expect from country folk…”

He sounds like his _abuela_.

Her fingers stir against her skirts. The boys have gone to see _mariachi_ before, but she never has. Either they play when she is busy in one house or another, or in the early evening and _Se_ _ñora_ María doesn’t approve of girls staying out after dark if not coming home from work. Perhaps she can go today, she thinks. The sun is not quite setting and twilight lasts longer in the summer anyway. _Se_ _ñora_ María is busy with the party and won’t even know she’s gone.

Imelda rises, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirts and starts for the plaza before she loses her nerve.

“Where are you going?” Pablo says, stunned enough so that his voice is above a mutter. “Wait, stop!”

She almost does stop, she almost goes back to sit back on the safety of the stool. It is strange, this fear that flits in the center of her chest. She doesn’t understand it. She’s not going for an errand, or to look for someone, or heading away from something — no she is going towards, being pulled towards— this something. All by herself. She walks, then jogs, then lifts her skirts and fairly runs, feet and heart flying. It doesn’t take her long at all to reach the plaza where she stops at the edge.

The _marachi_ are still preparing it seems in a little wooden pavilion that’s been built in the middle of the plaza. Paper lanterns of all colors have been strung up, already emitting a faint glow. The plaza is filled with excited people and some vendors have pulled their carts and mats closer, selling to the crowd. The air is tingling with anticipation.

 Imelda clutches at her skirts, unsure if she wants to go forward or go back. One thing for certain is that she’s unable to stay still so she paces on the outskirts of the crowd, waiting, wanting them to start. After a moment she realizes people are staring at her oddly so she moves to a corner and forces herself to stay still, her heart pounding.

“Ah, _buenos tardes, ni_ _ña,_ ” says a somewhat familiar voice. “I hardly ever see you outside of church.” Imelda glances over to see _Se_ _ñora_ Flores smiling at her, holding her baby on her hip. The baby is sucking on a slice of mango that comes from some some chili dusted mango on a stick that _Se_ _ñora_ Flores is holding, cut into the shape of a flower.

“ _Buenos tardes, Se_ _ñora,_ ” Imelda says, intrigued by this. She’s seen them at vendors before but has never had one.

“ _Mango con chile_ ,” _Se_ _ñora_ Flores says. “Would you like a taste?”

 Imelda nods.

“ _Gracias,_ _”_ she says as the woman breaks off a piece. Imelda takes a taste and then quickly eats the rest. It’s good. _Muy delicioso_ The sweetness of the mango melts in her mouth offset by the faint spice of the chili. She will buy more, she thinks, when she has some money to scrape up. Maybe even some for the twins… though it might not be such a treat for them if they’ve had it often.

A hush falls over the crowd and Imelda looks to the pavilion where one of the _mariachi_ has stepped to the front of it. They look like any other laborer she’s seen around, with white shirts and pants and _huarache_ sandals. There is something proud about them, maybe it is the way they stand or the instruments they carry or the brightness of their scarves.

“ _Buenos tardes, mi amigos,_ ” the man says. “I hope you don’t mind this impromptu show.”

Someone in the audience trills loudly and a laugh goes through the crowd. The _mariachi_ laughs, too.

“I see that you don’t. We are the _Caballeros,_ on our way to San Menas to see the sights; but we thought we’d pay our homage to dear Santa Cecilia along the way.”

“ _Canta! Canta!_ ” _Se_ _ñora_ Flores shouts. Someone else yells as well, a sharp rising yip and even the distant thunder seems to add its _grito_ to the mix.

“Alright, alright. I hear you.”  The _mariachi_ says in good humor. “Come on _, muchachos! Eso!_ ”

 The music starts with the harp, a quick exhilarating tune that is soon picked up by the guitar and violin, the _guitarron._ It’s a warm, thrilling tune, dancing through the air, inviting people to dance. Several whooped their appreciation, voices rising into the wind. Others began to dance. Imelda can feels the music stirring through her, lifting her up, and wants to dance, too. Everything in her is filled with a frenetic energy.  Beside her, _Se_ _ñora_ Flores begins to sway, bouncing the baby on her hip— and Imelda does too. Then lifts the hem of her skirts and starts to dance, the music flowing in and around her, trying to match the beat of the song with her feet. She is sweating from the humidity, heart soaring in her chest, breath dancing in her lungs. Her _chanclas_ slow her down so she kicks them off and spins into the crowd, keeping up with the beautiful sweeping music.

She dances a second song, a third, the wind picking up now and wicking away the sweat though she hardly notices. Her feet drum against stone, her hair shakes free and she can feel the braid thumb against her back and twist along her shoulders as she turns. At some point she finds herself calling with the others; a sound like: “ _R_ _rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrai_!”  uncurling from her gut and lifting into the air like a songbird.

After too soon the music ends and she opens her eyes, unaware that she’d closed them. Twilight has fallen now, the paper lanterns glowing with a soft light and swaying in the wind.

“Heeey!” says the lead _Caballero_ and there is a ragged cheer from the crowd as two more approach the pavilion. Héctor’s broad shouldered friend and Héctor himself, who is wearing a big goofy grin as he gets up to join them, guitar at his back. She rests her fingers against her throat, feeling her pulse race. The half light outlines his gangling form as he hugs the _mariachi_ in a brief rough way as if they are friends. It is different from seeing him play, with his eyes closed against everything.  She feels suddenly as if she’s truly seeing into his world for the first time, watching a life completely outside herself.

“You all probably know these two rats,” the lead _Caballero_ says. Héctor gives the man a laughing push and she distantly hears his friend say that he’s not a rat, more of a _gato_.  “Ernesto ‘the voice’ de La Cruz.”  The _mariachi_ says, as if he hadn’t heard. There is clapping and someone calls:

“Ernesto!”

“Aaaand Héctor,” the man says in a sudden flat voice, his eyes twinkling. “Bane of all borrowed guitars everywhere.”

“It was only once!” Héctor says as laughter ripples through the audience. It’s infectious and she finds herself laughing too, especially as he is still grinning, the _idiota_. She sways a bit from side to side, swinging her skirt in a loose way with her hands, wanting to dance, wanting him to look over, to notice her, just because she is there.

“How about you play a song with us, _amigos_ , and then you can close out the set with the Santa Cecilia song _Se_ _ñor Gato_ here was bragging about.”

“You _bragged_ about that?” Héctor says, sounding touched, even putting a hand to his chest. She melts a little though irritation is creeping back up in the back of her throat. It’s not fair, she knows. She is in a crowd and refuses to move forward to catch his attention— so how _can_ he notice her? She wants him to despite all of that. Well, she will be fair to him, she decides, raising her chin. Even if he never sees her, and why should he? She will not be angry.

“Of course I bragged about it, _mi amigo,_ ” Ernesto is saying. Whatever else he says is lost because Héctor has found her. Or at least it seems he has. There are so many he could be giving that slightly shocked expression to. Even as she thinks that she feels a stab of something like jealousy. She doesn’t like to think of him thinking that way about anyone else.

“Well?” says the lead _Caballero,_ pulling his attention, possibly, away from herself.

“Huh?” Héctor says, seeming dazed. The man laughs.

“Will you play with us, _muchacho?_ ”

“Ahh, no _gracias_ _…_ ” He seems to be searching the crowd before he finds her again. “Tonight I feel like dancing.”

Oh does he? She keeps his gaze as she turns, before heading into the crowd, deciding to make it not quite so easy on him. A part of her wants to make him work for it, to see if he can keep up, to see if he will. She glances over her shoulder once, twice, to see him weaving  through the crowd. The music begins unexpectedly and people cheer. He hasn’t caught up. She glances over her shoulder and then turns fully as she doesn’t see him. Was he not looking for her? Was—?

“ _Se_ _ñorita_?”  She turns, skirt swirling, braid falling over her shoulder. He’s there, smiling at her. She smiles, too, without even meaning to, without being able to help it. He bows a bit from the shoulders, hand on his chest as if asking her to dance. She curtsies back and then they are dancing to the bright music. She knows this one, ‘ _La Negra_ _’_ the Dark Lady, an ode to death— only she feels more alive each passing moment.

The dance is not as wild and untamed as before. He keeps his hands behind him and she keeps hers on her skirts, but they are close, close enough that with only the slightest nudge she’d be against him. She watches his eyes and tries to match his movements. It feels easy, like falling into water. They are one person, circling one another, turning and facing one another again.

It’s like a prelude to a kiss. The words sweep away, the crowd sweeps away, the wind, the smell of rain, it is just them and the music, dancing and dancing until she takes his offered hand and he spins her against him. The music stops and they are both breathing hard. She can feel the rise and fall of his chest and the steadiness of his hand against her waist. He gazes down at her with a soft waiting look, she gazes up at him and knows she looks the same—

The thunder _booms_ hard enough to make windows rattle and suddenly it’s pouring rain. Imelda shrieks at the shock of it and then laughs for no reason she can think of. The people around them yelp and laugh or curse and scurry to get out of the wet. Héctor squeezes her hand.

“Come on!” he says and she has to gather her skirts as they’re running, the puddles splashing up around her ankles. She laughs and runs along with him until she realizes they’re heading for the Cantina. No! She doesn’t want to go there. They’ll lose the moment. She’ll lose him to other people and drink and food.

“No!” she says, then spotting a narrow side street: “Here!” and she darts in that direction, pulling him behind her. He yelps and stumbles after her.

“Imelda, what—?”

She doesn’t give him time to question. At first she thinks of pushing him against the wall again, but remembering his guitar, she loops both hands around his neck and pulls him down to her. He must have caught on half way because he meets her in what feels like a perfect kiss, mouth open and gentle over hers. Then another…and a third. All of these kisses are slow, lingering; as if in defiance to the thunder that rolls outside and within her. She plays with and tugs the hair at the back of his neck, scratching lightly at the base of it and humming happily when he makes a muffled noise against her lips. The hum turns into a squeak as he grabs her around the waist and lifts her.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” she says, breaking away, surprised; though a second later has her answer as he sets her on a barrel. He frowns, wet hair falling into his eyes giving him a hang dog look.

“Your feet were getting wet.”

She smiles, hooking her fingers once more on the back of his neck and kissing him and curls one leg around his to keep him from getting away. His hand is resting loosely on her thigh. He seems to realize this and starts pulling it away and she reaches down to keep it there. She enjoys his hand there, large and faintly warm through her skirt. 

“Imelda…” he murmurs against her lips. She hums a question and decides to discover if she enjoys nibbling the fine ridge of his jaw. She does.

“I _mel_ da,” he squeaks as she catches the lobe of one ear very gently between her teeth. She hums again, more than pleased, one hand curled in his hair, the other twisted into the back of his shirt, feeling the neck of the guitar bump against her knuckles. 

“Wait…” he says and that stops her, sobers her. She licks her lower lip and leans back, letting her hands drift to his shoulders, suddenly wondering if this was alright.  He watches her back and kisses her. Then pulls away, holding up a hand. “No, wait wait wait.” He kisses her a second time, a third. She laughs against his mouth and pushes him away, a hand to the center of his chest.

“Say what you’re trying to say, _idiota._ ”

He blinks at her. Swallows.

“I’ve… never done this before…”

“Me either,” she says, rubbing his shoulders, they feel good under her hands, but bony. She can’t decide if she likes that or not. His thumb strokes her thigh like he’s thrumming across guitar strings and it makes her toes curl. He looks worried and inward so she doesn’t do much more than hook her fingers behind his neck again, watching him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says and she smiles.

“You won’t.” How can he? There is nothing in this that hurts.

“Will you tell me if I do?” he asks, and in the growing dimness it’s hard to see his eyes. She pushes his wet bangs from his face, just so she can.

“ _Sí_ ,” she murmurs, letting her hand slip down the contours of his face, playing along the line of his jaw. “Will you tell me?” She doesn’t think she can hurt him either, but then she doesn’t really know.

“ _Sí._ _”_ He looks cheered up by this and she leans forward the scant distance to rub her nose against his and then kisses him again, melting a little from it. It’s interesting how different kisses are from one moment to the next, once hot and greedy, now warm and soft, exploring, connecting… At some point, she doesn’t know when, the rain staggers to a stop and the thunder cloud moves off exhausted. At some point the moon comes out, little more than a segment or two of an orange; enough for her to see him in a dim fuzzy way.

He pulls back and kisses the heel of her hand, the center of her palm. It tickles and she is half tempted to jerk away and hide it behind her, but she likes it, too, that warm feathery sensation.

“Want to come sing in the _R_ _ío_ with me?” he asks, speaking of the Cantina. “Your voice is _beautiful_.”

She flushes, not sure what to make of the compliment. She’s never considered it anything but a voice before. Still…

“No.” She doesn’t want to sing in front of strangers. It seems odd to her. She’s not a _m_ _úsico_ like he is. Some days she feels barely anything at all. “That’s your world…” She takes his hand in hers, spreading her fingers up his palm, tracing his own long fingers until she can feel the callused tips, then presses her lips against them one by one, hearing his breath hitch.

“You can come, too,” he says in a lower pitch rough around the edges. Can she be in his world? She thinks she can maybe. At least to dance and hear him play and sing. But herself? Could she really stand up in front of everyone and sing? She had once, in front of the revolutionaries, but that had only been because she had been angry…

 Anyway it’s night already, true dark and _Se_ _ñora_ María frowns on that. She has to go to the cleric house very early in the morning and already her feet are a little sore. A part of herself _wants_ to live in Héctor’s amazing world where there is music and dancing and kissing and warm velvet evenings…

Yet ifshe sinks into that world, if she loses her position and their room, what will happen to the twins when they visit? Where will they stay? How will she provide for them? What will the Padre say? She still owes him so much, and doesn’t want to appear ungrateful. So no, no she can’t do that. She can’t let herself be swayed no matter how great the temptation.  She tries to dismiss it but it lingers there in the back of her mouth, like the remembered taste of _mango con chile_. She lets go of his hand and pushes gently against his chest. “I should be heading back.”

He steps off and offers his hand, helping her off the barrel, and then doesn’t let go as the walk hand in hand back to the moonlit plaza. Her _chanclas_ are easy enough to find, abandoned and flung out to either side in the rush. It’s too late and pointless to put them back on so she scoops them up— and now has to go. She’s sure _Se_ _ñora_ María doesn’t want her to bring Héctor near the house, especially not on her birthday. She doesn’t want to let go of him. Doesn’t want to leave. Wants to dance again slowly even though there is no music but cricket songs.

“Should I come see you tomorrow?” he asks, voice quiet as if he doesn’t want to break the stillness. She shakes her head. There is no point to that. She feels like he’ll be driven off even if she doesn’t know why.

“I’ll come find you,” she says instead, leaning up to kiss his cheek, the hidden dimple at the curve of his mouth.

“Where?”

“Wherever.” Santa Cecilia isn’t so large that she can’t find him. He smiles and squeezes her hand, she returns it. The crickets sing around them. She finds herself reconsidering the Catina…and knows she has to go now or she knows she never will.

“ _Buenos noches_ , Teto,” she says, kissing his cheek once more before letting go of his hand.

“I thought it was _bandito_ ,” he says with a soft laugh. She smiles at him over her shoulder.

“ _Bandito,_ Teto _, m_ _úsico_ , you are all these things.” And also hers. But he doesn’t need to know that yet. As she walks away, he begins to play that sweet little tune she’d heard him play once. Even that makes her want to dance. Then he begins to sing, low as if only to himself and she wants to stop and listen to him— but in that way lies danger in never getting back.

“The feeling’s so close you can reach out and touch it…” Another small dance of melody warm in the night air. “I never knew I could want something so much, but it’ s true…”  The words fade to humming, as if he doesn’t know the rest of the words and even then she wants to catch every note.

She listens as hard as she can as she moves away and sighs as the sound disappears completely. It doesn’t seem fair that she should have to leave when everything she wants is in the opposite direction… But life isn’t fair. It’s hard work and sacrifice. In that much she knew _T_ _ía Superiora_ had been right. Still, she thinks to herself with a faint smile as she slips into the darkened house— she can fulfill her responsibilities and still find time for Héctor and that beautiful wonderful dangerous music.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

It’s a wonderfully hot day, the kind of heat that reaches fingers under skin and warms the very bones. It’s a good heat to sleep through and _siestas_ will be long and drowsy. Imelda counts it as a blessing. She stares up at the patches of blue sky through the tangled branches of a scrubby little tree, hands folded on her stomach, head resting on the bony yoke of Héctor’s shoulder, but in the other direction so he can play without having to reach around her.

 She enjoys feeling the movement of his arm and the faint vibration of the music; even his head on her shoulder is a warm, welcome weight. He is plucking out an aimless tune now, with no melody she can pick out. Imelda smiles, feeling a warm giddy surge but that may be in part to the wine they’d split earlier that sits warm in her stomach like a contented cat. Her smile stretches to a grin as an impulse hits her and she rolls her head to the side, planting a warm kiss on his neck  under his ear. The guitar sings a sudden sour note and she giggles. _Idiota. Precioso idiota._

“I think you do that on purpose.”

“ _Sí_ ,” she murmurs, shifting even more to tug a hand through his hair and kissing his neck again, nipping just a little. “What are you going to do about it?” 

He shifts his head a bit to look at her and grins.

“Suffer.”

She laughs and lightly tugs his hair. His grin fades a bit into that warm waiting look, brown eyes shadowed by the fringe of his lashes and she indulges him, leaning forward and up to kiss him. It’s somewhat difficult to manage, but they’ve done it twice now and so are starting to get the hang of it. His head falls against her arm instead of the ground as she leans over, coming from the side instead of above because his nose will get in the way. This time their lips meet perfectly. The kiss only spoiled by the happy little tune he plays that makes her laugh.

“ _Idiota_ ,” she murmurs, giving him a good kiss this time. She lingers there, flicking out her tongue to taste the wine on his lips. The music stops and she shivers a little at the pleasant little thrill that goes through her when his fingers brush through her hair, trailing lazy and warm over the curve of her ear. His mouth opens under hers and after a moment his tongue is against hers, questioning. She lets him in and considers the experience a moment before deciding she doesn’t enjoy it. There is _something_ there, but right now it feels a bit like trying to eat a slick worm. She makes a face and pulls away.

“No good, ey?” he says with a rueful smile.

“Not yet.” She kisses the tip of his nose, then deciding she wants a change, shifts onto her stomach. His head comes to rest on the back of her shoulder and she rests her chin on his, cushioning him from it by her own arm. The world is silent except for the distant chuckle of water and a bird woke too early from an afternoon _siesta._

“ _Ay_ I don’t get it,” he says, playing strands of her loose hair between his fingers. “The guys at the Catina say that _senoritas_ love that sort of thing. That you should do it as soon as possible.”

“I would have bitten it off,” she says, thinking of those poor _senoritas._ He laughs.

“I believe you.”

Quiet.

Her gaze travels down the line of his chest and comes to rest on the guitar, the turquoise shining a brighter blue when the sun hits it. She wonders… A strange anticipation knots her throat as she skirts her arm around his, trailing her fingers along his ribs to hear his breath catch, then slides them over the warm brown body of the guitar, expecting him to stop her. He doesn’t. Not even when her fingers touch the strings.

It’s amazing how such simple things can do so much. She shifts her fingers as she’s seen him do and drags her thumb over the strings. The bite of them against the pad of her finger is more than she expects, but the faint shivering music it produces is worth it. She strokes it again, with more pressure this time, getting a louder sound.  A third time and she blinks, wondering how the sound has changed, then notices his fingers have shifted against the… the fretboard. She thrums a fourth time, a fifth, watching his fingers move, listening to the changing sounds.

He stirs in a way that she’s come to realize means he has a plan and rests his other hand over hers. She lets him guide her thumb and excitement glows like a small sun through her as she realizes he’s helping her play a song.  Then she realizes what song it is and bites his shoulder in vengeance.

“Ow!” he says, but then laughs. “Alright, alright. How about this one.”

She smiles, much more content as it’s the pretty song from that one night, the night of dancing, she absently kicks her feet lazily in the air in memory. All of a sudden she remembers how the words go, too. The ones she knows anyway.

“The feeling’s so close you could reach out and touch it,” she sings in a low voice, closing her eyes and letting the song pull sweetly through her. “I _never knew_ I could _want something_ _…_ so… much…” she stops because she realizes he has. “What?” she says, flushing and feeling self-conscious. She can hear him swallow.

“I uh… You… I-it’s just…”

“Should I not sing it?” she asks, pulling her hand away and sitting up. He sits up as well, ears red, holding up a hand.

“No! I-- I mean, _sí._ I-if you want to. I was just surprised…” He gives her a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. In the distance, the church bell rings the hour, rousing anyone who is not already awake. It’s just as well. She doesn’t want to leave him since even  leaving is getting more difficult lately. Something has changed and she doesn’t know what it is, nor does she like it. She frowns and combs her fingers through her hair so she can put it back up.

“I’m glad you did, Imelda. Really…” he says.

“Hm?” She wonders at his anxious look, then remembers the song. “I know.” She leans in to kiss his cheek. “Have you seen my ribbon anywhere?”

They look for it on the blanket Héctor borrowed from somewhere, on the short grass. She stands and shakes out her skirt. A tickle of wind makes her raise her head and she stares out over the land. In the distance she can see the narrow river, glinting and sparkling in the light. It would feel good to wade in that cool water, but she has to return to work… and her home, she thinks, worry once more gnawing at the back of her mind.

  _Se_ _ñora_ María’s oldest daughter and pregnant granddaughter are staying with her, leaving no room for Imelda. So for now she sleeps in a tiny unused room in the cleric’s house, which is just enough for a cot and her things. It’s fine for her and Sofia, but there will be little room for the twins.

And her boys still haven’t written her. She only hopes the mail has been delayed but Padre de León assures her they’re fine. She’s sure they are-- she hopes they are, but she wants to read their words. No, more than that, to see their faces, to remember who they were and see what they’ve become. Will they even recognize her after so long away.

“It will be alright.” Héctor kisses her cheek. “Whatever it is.”

She rests against him, pulling his arms around her to steal one last moment of this. A churro brays somewhere, as if calling her in. Imelda sighs and kisses his knuckles before moving from his hold. Her braid is loose and annoying against her neck but apparently the ribbon has not been found. Glancing up at him, her mood darkens in an instant. He is wearing _that_ expression again. The one that says that he is going to tell her something that she doesn’t like. She knows just what it is, too.

“Héctor, no,” she says, stamping her foot against the grass. He _can_ _’t_ be going back to that stupid town again. She had managed to see him almost daily for a month now. He’s filled out. Lost that hollow look. And even grown  an inch or two, which annoys her greatly. Even more irritating, she had thought he had gotten comfortable here finally, that she wouldn’t have to worry.

“Imelda I have to,” he says, spreading his hands. “It’s _muy importante._ Ruiz…”

“ _Ay,_ Ruiz.” She is tired of hearing of that man and his promises.

“…He left a message for Ernesto…”

“Of course he did.”

“…Saying that he’s finally got the capital…”

“For how long?”

“And I really think he’s got it this time. This could be our big chance! We just need to give him some time, work with him, help build an audience…”

“For how long?” she says, tugging him down by the collar, no intention of kissing him this time. In fact she almost wanted to strangle him. He sucks in a breath then gives her the grin that says he’s trying to soften whatever he’s going to say:

“…Two months?”

“Two months,” she repeats, glaring at him, daring him to say it again.

“ _Sí._ _”_

She hates him.

“I’ll miss you when you die,” Imelda says flatly. Her hair is still annoying so she unties his red bandanna and uses that to tie it back instead. It won’t stay but it will do for now.

“I won’t die.”

“You _will_ ,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Every time you come back from that place you come back looking like an _esqueleto._ Can’t you find anyone to feed you?”

“Well, chasing your dream is hard sometimes…”

“Bah…” She wants to talk him out of it.To demand he not go. It’s so rough on him and it’s more irritating here when he’s not around. She feels more restless; trapped behind walls she has no hope of escaping.

“You could come with me,” he asks as he always does. “You can sing and dance, not even for anyone, just for fun!” he says, holding up his hands as she gives him another look.  “And Ruiz was saying there are is some _muy rico_ _hombre_ staying somewhere in town and he brought ah… an um…” Héctor snaps his fingers. “An _ocoho_ mobile! _Sí!_ That’s it!”

“A what?”

“It’s amazing. It’s this cart…” He gestures with both hands, as if holding an imaginary cart. “That moves along without anything pulling it.”

“You mean a train,” she says, folding her arms.

“No…” He scratches the back of his head. “I don’t think so… But anyway we could driink and meet people and go to parties and laugh…There’s so much to do.”

“Héctor, I told you before, I can’t!” She turns away from him, wishing he would stop asking her, wishing he would stop _going_. Wishing he could stop making it sound…so exciting…

“Why not?”

“Filipe…Oscar…” She can’t leave them.

“It’s a big town! We’ll find a place for them, _no pasa nada._ ” 

“The padre…”

“…Will understand. _T_ _ía_ María too. Ever since Julia’s _hombre_ ran off with that fruit vendor, _T_ _ía_ María’s been trying to find a place for her.”

How did he know about _Se_ _ñora_ María’s granddaughter?  Who told him all these things about everyone? She’d never understand. Either way…No… She can’t go. She feels like she’s standing on the edge of some steep hill, looking down, or wanting to chase the wild water. It sounds amazing. Invigorating. To experience all of it. To let go. To see Héctor every day. To show the _twins_ that place, more than just the train station. Even to see an _ocho_ mobile.

She’s also terrified of it. Who knows where that hill will drop to. Where that water will lead to. Here it is mostly the same, there anything could happen. She will break free of these walls and it will be wonderful but she will also be cut loose from everything she’s known. How can she do it? How can she dare?

“You don’t have to decide now…” he says after a moment. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back. I’ll visit.” His hands are on her shoulders again, thumbs rubbing against her skin, trying to be soothing. She wants to fall into it. She wants to pull away.

“Why do you want me to come so much?” she says irritably, shrugging him off, moving away, folding her arms.

“Well…” he says. “I miss you.”

How could he say that? How dare he say that?  How is she supposed to react to that? What is she supposed to do? It hurts, but in a way that almost feels good. He misses her. Notices her. Wants her.  She shakes her head and walks away, back toward the cleric house and her bed and her life.

“I’ll come see you before I go!” he calls, because he can never just let her leave. She doesn’t want him to be there. She doesn’t want him to leave. What does she want? How can she even begin to know? She’s not sure… Still… there is someone who might be able help her.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Imelda stares at the doors to the padre’s sitting room, holding Sofia against her chest and petting her ears. The kitten is restless and Imelda doesn’t blame her. She’s been confined to one room for a while now where she used to have the run of the house. _Se_ _ñora_ María had said she was too dangerous to do the same in the cleric’s house. It was inappropriate for a house such as this to have a cat, who could be, after all, the devil’s servants. What’s more, what if the kitten ran underfoot and the padre didn’t notice? It could be a disaster. So Sofia had remained cooped up and Imelda knows she probably shouldn’t bring the cat out now, but she feels that she needs something to hold on to.

Tentatively, before she can change her mind, she raises a hand and knocks on the door.

“Come in, Imelda,” he says warmly… Just like he had on that day when she and her boys had first arrived, tired and sore and elated and ready to collapse. He had given them all a fond smile and let them sleep in one of the upstairs beds which had been the softest thing Imelda could ever remember being in.

She opens the door to find him on the settee, bad leg stretched in front of him. He seems busy, even this late at night. Papers are spread around him as if he’s busy…

“I was just wanting to see you,” he says, giving her a warm smile, and gestures. “Come, sit down.”

“ _Gracias,_ ” she murmurs, closing the door behind her and sitting where told. Sofia immediately tries to bolt off her lap, murring unhappily as Imelda holds onto her.

“You may let her go,” the Padre says with a smile. “I imagine she’s precious enough freedom at the moment.”

Imelda does, relieved. The kitten scampers off the couch and immediately darts over to the padre to play with a bit of balled up paper.

“Your face tells me you want to discuss something with me,” Padre de León says. “I understand. But first, I have something to tell you.  I’ve just gotten the message that your boys have officially been apprenticed.”

“Apprenticed?”

“To a paper mill and a bakery respectively. It’s not dangerous work for either of them and there’s still time for schooling. After all that was the condition.”

“…But… why?” They are still _ni_ _ños_ aren’t they?  They can’t have grown up already. She isn’t prepared for that.

“They wanted to get a head start. Build up a nest egg for university. It will be hard for them, you know, with no extended _familia_  to support them.”  His smile fades a little. “It does mean they won’t be home for the summer holidays.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of her. It’s too much. She can’t understand how they can decide something like that. To keep themselves so far away from her.  Was that why the letters had been so short? They hadn’t wanted to tell her or…perhaps hadn’t wanted her to change their minds? Those boys weren’t _her_ boys, were they? How could they be?

“You should be proud of them,” he says, softly, chastising. She nods, clenching her hands in her skirts and wishing Sofia would come back so she could distract herself with petting her.

“I am,” she says. The padre doesn’t look convinced. She means it. She is proud. She knows she is in her mind even if her heart doesn’t seem to want to agree.

“Secondly,” the Padre says. “Héctor…” He seems uncomfortable a moment. “I’ve heard you’ve been spending more time with him.”

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda says. He frowns as if he doesn’t approve and Imelda suddenly wonders if he and _Se_ _ñora_ María have been trying to keep them apart on purpose. She doesn’t understand that either…

“And how do you feel about him?” the padre asks, cool gray eyes resting on hers as if trying to search out the truth. She shakes her head. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t have the words to even explain. She enjoys being with him, kissing him, listening to his music. She worries about him. He is not her _hermano_ , yet somehow feels as close in a different way, settling there right under her heart with his stupid music and his stupid kissing and the stupid way he gives her that lazy smile. Padre de León nods as if he understands something.

“I know how difficult it is to be lonely,” he says. “And how easy it is to reach out to someone who shows you kindness.”

She clenches her teeth, twisting her hands in her skirts. What is he saying? She’s not some dog following after Héctor for careless scraps. He came into her life first. She can’t imagine he was lonely then. She can’t imagine Héctor ever being lonely. Nor the padre who is always surrounded by people who love and respect him, while she is by herself, an afterthought. How can he understand?

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, _mija_ ,” the padre says kindly and she almost wants to smack him. Why should she be ashamed? But he is a good  man and trying to comfort her and she takes a breath or two, trying to calm down.

“Still, I must ask you to be careful around him.  He’s a good _ni_ _ño_ … well…man now, I suppose… A very good one. But…He can be a little…” the padre waves his hand.

“ _Estupido_ ,” Imelda says bluntly. Padre de León snorts a laugh and then immediately rearranges his face into a straight line.

“I was going to say careless. But _sí_.”

“He’s going back to San Menas,” she tells him. “For months.”

“Again? _Ay_ , Héctor…” The padre pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s not even going to _survive_ months.”

“ _Verdad_?!” She throws her hands in the air. “ _Madre mio_ , I spend a month fixing that and he turns right around and—if he comes back a bag of bones I will kill him myself. I know he wants to be a _m_ _úsico_ and this is _muy importante_ to him, but he’s not going to get very far if he drives himself into the ground. You would think Ernesto would understand that he needs to take better care of him because Héctor couldn’t take care of a chicken in a hen yard… What?”

Because Padre de León is laughing, head thrown back and everything. Even Sofia is staring at him in wonder. Imelda watches him confused, not sure if she should be insulted by this or not. She stamps her foot lightly.

“It’s true!”

“No… _Sí, sí_ it is…” the padre chuckles and wipes his eyes, waving a hand. “ _Disculpe mio_ , Imelda. I’ve never heard my inner thoughts laid out so plainly.” He shakes his head.

“Well, it’s frustrating,” Imelda says, unsure of what to make of this, absently brushing the wrinkles out of her skirts. “But being a _m_ _úsico_ means so much to him. All he does is play, or sing… He can’t get where he wants in Santa Cecilia…so I understand… Only I wish he had someone to look after him there.”

“Perhaps one day he’ll ask you to look after him there,” the padre says warmly. Imelda snorts. He’d better not. If she does go to San Menas, she will look after Héctor of course because it will drive her loco not to after a while, but she’s not going to spend her time shackled once more to a kitchen and a set of rooms. If she goes to San Menas it will be to see all the things he promised. The _ocho_ mobile, the places, the people, the signing, the dancing. She is not going to become a _hermana_ for him.

“Until that time,” the padre continues. “I’m sure you’re aware of… Señora María’s…situation.”

“Sí.” Or at least, she is now.

“I don’t know if you remember _Se_ _ñor_ Arango, visiting a while ago now. He’s just acquired a plot of land, an old ranch really, just West of Lago Verde… Perhaps ten miles out?” Padre de León smiles as if he’s about to give her some good  news. “He’s in need of a good maid of all work and has formally decided on you.”

“No.”  The word drops out of her mouth like a stone. The padre’s smile vanishes.

“Imelda, it’s a good opportunity… I know it’s out in the countryside…”

“No.” She stands to scoop up Sofia and hold her to her chest. Go out into the countryside? A maid of all work? Even more work? Away from Santa Cecilia and even further away from San Menas where that _idiota_ would bury himself?

“You will be closer to your _convento_ ,” the padre says. “And it wouldn’t be too long until you could save up money to visit your _hermanos_.”

That alone makes her pause. She’s never had much money and definitely never enough to even try to get that far away. She only really gets pocket money here and some of that goes to the boys. To be able to save up…and visit them… but for how long? A day? A week? And then what? Back to somewhere else, told to do this, told to do that, cooking and cleaning—the twins growing up without her, marrying, leaving her. Héctor starving to death in San Menas. She can’t imagine he’d come out all the way past Lago Verde for her. Even if he did, how long would he even stay? Who else would try to drive them apart for unknown reasons?

“No,” she says, then adds. “ _Gracias_.” It is for her benefit. She knows that…and Padre de León has always looked out for her, for them, even more so than the church required, she often thought. He sighs.

“I’m sorry to say this, Imelda. I am. But unless you can find some other sort of work here in Santa Cecilia, I have little choice.”

He may not have a choice, but she did… and she would not be trapped any more. Not by him. Not by anyone. She may not know what will happen in San Menas or how she will fit in or who she will become; but she is going to find out.

 


	7. A Little Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered that fitting in with the _familia_ is easier said than done; Hector does not like his chances. Still he doesn't want to give up completely. 
> 
> Not yet, anyway.

Héctor waited on the empty _travia_ platform, pacing as a tangled mass of nerves writhed within his ribcage. In a small part it had to do with the time of year. _Las posadas_ had never been that big of a deal when he was alive. In the _orphananto_ it had just been a time for solemn prayer and stories, with maybe treats handed out if they’d been able to afford it. As an adult it had just been another excuse to get drunk and celebrate whatever; play for people’s good cheer; or sing a hymn or two, full of history and its own kind of magic. After death, he’d come to have a great appreciation for the holiday as it grew in importance, year by year. He loved the lights, the songs, the food and drinks that appeared. The festivity. People laughed more. Danced more.

Even in Shanty Town there was the feeling that something _fantastico_ was going to happen. It never did, of course, and when people were forgotten this time of year, it hurt all the more. Yet even then it felt significant somehow. Its own kind of holy. Either way the _feeling_ was there and sometimes that was enough to get through one more year. If you could. It always made him want to dance and celebrate more, too. To be caught up in the swirl and pitch of excitement and push from his mind another disappointing _Día de Muertos_. And then music came into it and he’d had to pull back. People always wanted him to sing or play and a part of him always wanted to indulge but he’d beaten that selfish part back until it was just a faint inkling of desire.

Until this year at least.

Everything had changed. Gotten worse in some ways, but gotten better too. He’d definitely be able to participate more this year since at least he could stand to listen to music, even if he was still uncertain about playing. Maybe he should guide a tour or two before he headed back, he thought. There was always an influx of dead this time of year and the _Departo_ always enjoyed someone who could cheer up the incoming who were especially depressed or drunk. More to the point, he usually got trinkets and offerings from grateful employees, who were overworked trying to remain cheerful in the face of all that gloom. Then he could use what he’d gotten to trade for drinks and food to give to the people in Shanty Town when he went back tonight. Have a real _fiesta_.

Provided… the nerves twisted a little, like too taut strings ready to snap. Provided… everything went well with the _familia._ The word felt heavy in his mind and sat rocklike in the gut that he didn’t even have. They were _a familia_ , but he couldn’t wrap his mind around them being _his familia_. Oscar and Filipe, _no pasa nada_. They’d always been more of Imelda’s _hermanos,_ even if he and they got along.

…Used to… he thought with a wince.

Sort of… still did…

He knew that Oscar was just angry more with the music question rather than him personally, and even then more because it hurt Imelda. While Filipe had said the time for that mourning was over and they should move on and maaybe had blamed him for music not being there. Which Héctor could understand. Then Rosita had piped up that she liked music and was happy to have him back, but Oscar had told her it didn’t matter whether she liked it and Filipe had told her he’d never been there in the first place— Which had been hard enough but not untrue… And then Victoria had said, looking right at him: ‘This is what _m_ _úsico_ does to the _familia._ _’_

_Ay,_ _…_ Héctor took off his hat and fanned himself. _Dios **mio**_ had he ever underestimated Imelda’s ability to hate someone. She was an intense woman, full of fire and determination and a loot of resentment. He understood. He did. He had chosen to leave her behind. But the resentment felt like an infection, spreading out to her _familia_ , hardening a part of them to stone-- and he knew she didn’t want that. That she had only been trying to protect herself and those she loved…

“Where are you?” he grumbled as he peered down the empty track, hoping for any sight of the _travia_. Maybe they’d cut off this line as they sometimes did during the holidays. People seemed to have a fear of being anywhere near the _olvidado_ , as if it was bad luck, so the only stop near was almost a twenty minute walk from the place. Ah well. More walking to do. He whistled for Dante who was sniffing his way along the tracks, bright tail wagging like a beacon.

“Come on, _perrito._ We’ve got a ways to go.”

Dante barked and then whined as apparently he’d gotten his nose stuck on something. With a groan Héctor pulled the _alibrije_ free and started down the tracks himself, listening to the way bone plinked against the metal rail. Now he was going back. Why was simply because he knew Imelda wanted him to. She’d given him choices. To come and go or avoid them completely and meet Coco on his own terms— but this was important to her. _Why_ , he didn’t know. But enough so that she was willing to apologize, to take steps back from what she wanted. That wasn’t Imelda. That had never been her. She didn’t back down from anything.

She’d called him that name… _Bandito_ _…_

And--

He touched his cheek where she’d kissed it. For just a fleeting moment he’d remembered softness of her lips, and, strangely, the way her hair smelled in the morning just after she’d washed it. In that small breath of a second he had remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Then she’d left, closing the door and leaving him out in the empty courtyard.

Dead again. Just bones. Which was fine, he was used to that. He didn’t even know who that alive guy was anymore. Sometimes when he’d had that photo he’d take it out just to make sure he _still_ had it and a stranger had grinned back up at him.

‘You have made the worst mistake of your life, _muchacho_ ,’ he had told it more than once. The _idiota_ just grinned back up at him as if somehow he’d make everything better. Héctor couldn’t even remember where he’d gotten the photo or why—only it was sometime after…

Maybe he’d wanted to appease her somehow. Or even just show Coco his face so she wouldn’t forget what it looked like. She probably wouldn’t recognize him now even if she _did_ remember. Even the charro outfit gone in bits and pieces, traded off to others because he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore or be that anymore.

And now he was getting a second chance that he’d dreamed about in the early days. Only second chance for what? To hurt her more? To be shifted sideways into the _familia_ like, this is the disappointment, we don’t know what to do with him but he’s ours to remind us of everything we’ve lost. Of course, he could just not show up.

Héctor turned where he was and looked back toward the pile of stone that marked one of the entrances to Shanty Town though the actual entrance was far below. Imelda had given him that option. To just be there when Coco was there. That he could do. Give her an _hola_ and a hug if she allowed it and let her know without a doubt that he loved her more than anything and that he would have given anything to come home to her.

And then… what?

Leave her life again? Disappear back into Shanty Town? Travel the Land of the Dead? Or be that sad stick attached to the side of the _familia,_ a branch with no leaves or fruit but just hanging around because he had nowhere else to truly be? He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. It was a riddle that didn’t seem to have an answer and the more he thought about it the less he wanted to move.

Dante whined and Héctor glared at him.

“Well, what do you want me to do, eh? You’re a spirit guide. Guide me!”

Dante only whined again, looking behind Héctor, tail thumping faintly as if telling him to go to the hacienda.

 “You really think that’s going to work? You’ve got a lot of faith, _perrito_. Maybe instead of just hurting the love of my life, I can also destroy her _familia_. What a wonderful idea!”

_Ay_. He was starting to sound angry and bitter even to himself. That was not who he was. Not who he wanted to be. If he let himself slide down that hill there would be no getting out of it. But just for a moment he wanted to. To indulge in that feeling, because at least it was a _feeling_ he could do something with. Because what if— he didn’t show up— at all. Just break that promise, too. Why not. Imelda would be disappointed but at least she wouldn’t be surprised. Dante was barking. Héctor ignored him. The idea bright and terrible was building up through him. It would be pretty easy to—

Colorful jaws were around his arm and Héctor yelped as the dog pulled, yanking him nearly off his feet as he stumbled off the tracks.

“Hey—! What-!”

 The world came back to him and he winced as he heard the shrill shriek of breaks and a gust of wind blew hist hat off which he scrambled to catch.

“Why are you standing on the tracks like some _idiota!_ ” the _travia_ driver bellowed. “What _era_ are you from? I could have sent you flying!”

“Ah, _lo siento, lo siento_ ,” Héctor said, turning, hands in the air. Then blinked at the familiar _esqueleto_ glaring at him from the window. “Jorge? You got a promotion?”

“Oh, it’s you,” Jorge said. “Comon’, _T_ _ío_ , it’s my second day on the job. I’m so over heart attacks, _hombre_.”

“ _Lo siento_ , eh? Just a little distracted.” He could see the people on the _travia_ peering out at him, getting a little restless and annoyed. “You mind if I hop on for a few stations?”

“Fine but you gotta stay up here and talk to me.” He rolled his eyes. “ _Siesta_ crowd.” Meaning they wanted to get home and home now, not to be caught in some cramped _travia_ in a bad part of town. Héctor hopped on board, grateful for the right and, more importantly, someone he knew. He grabbed onto the pole by the driver and looked down bemused as Dante squirmed between his legs, chewing on a bone. The amusement faded.

“Hey!” someone from the back snapped.

“Drop it,” Héctor said, giving the dog a nudge. Dante did, giving him a sad face and Héctor shifted as the bone flew back to its owner. “No chewing on strange femurs.”

Jorge laughed. “Only you’d have an _alibrije_ like that. Anyone at the station?”

He thought to explain that Dante wasn’t exactly his but that would take too long so he shook his head.

“Don’t think so. But go slow.”

“ _Vale,_ my man.” The _travia_ started up once more, the familiar rocking gate soothing. Dante wriggled onto his back, panting, long tongue dripping onto the floor and Héctor smiled, scratching at his belly with a foot. There was no one at the station and Jorge flicked one of the switches that lined the dashboard.

“Next stop _Candado Estacion_. Switch for Blue Line, Red Line and South Air.” He flicked the switch back again. “How’ve you been, _T_ _ío_? Have a good _Día de Muertos?_ My Mamá left me six bags of _tostilocos_ and a copy of Bioshock: Infinite. I am living the dream. What about you?”

“Eh, it wasn’t bad,” Héctor said, having only some idea of what _tostilocos_ were and no idea of the other. Still it was good to see Jorge content. Héctor had first met him a few years back with a baad case of _que pasa_. He’d only been seventeen when he’d flipped his car three times trying to avoid an armadillo and ended up crushed in a ditch. It had taken Héctor the better part of a day to convince him he was dead and not in some haunted house or freak show. Fortunately, once he’d calmed down, Jorge had taken the ‘ _estas muerto, muchacho_ ’ speech pretty well and had built a nice after life for himself. It didn’t hurt that he had a large doting family already waiting for him.

“It was wild from what I heard. A living kid? De la Cruz becoming a _rudo?_ ” He whistled. “My _abeulita_ is still in tears over that one. She wanted to marry the man.”

“Eh, not worth the effort.” Ernesto had never been any good with women and even worse with commitment.

“If you say so, _T_ _ío_. _I_ never wanted to marry him. He didn’t even write his own songs, I heard! Got some other dumb _salado_ to do it.” Jorge laughed. “Bet they’re feeling the sting.” His voice lowered. “And, I hear, De la Cruz? He didn’t come out of it so good either.”

“Anyway, Jorge,” Héctor said, desperate to change the subject but having the feeling it was going to keep coming up regardless. “Congrats on the promotion.” He hit his shoulder lightly. “Bet you’re regretting it this time of year, eh?”

“Nah, they don’t put me on with the incomers. You’ve gotta get special training for that. By the way, did you hear…?”

Héctor listened to him go on with half an ear, absently picking up tidbits and gossip. Jorge was the kind who would talk to a brick wall happily for hours so long as he heard some kind of echo. Héctor took comfort in it. He watched as people got on the _tranv_ _ía_ , got off, the swirl of traffic in _Candido Estacion_ , packed for the season, a horrible version of ‘ _Deseo de Navidad_ ’ playing, sounding even worse in the terrible acoustics.

The last passenger left. Jorge closed the doors. It was only then that Héctor caught on the silence in the car. Jorge was staring down at his hands as if he’d never seen them before. Héctor frowned, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You…alright, _amigo_?’

“ _Sí_ …” He fumbled with his watch, twisting it around his wrist. “I just…hate that song.”

“ _Ay,_ me too. You’d think that’d be the _last_ thing people want to think about around here.” The Mamá was dead and the Papá was singing, wishing she were there and that the _niños_ could hug her. He always heard people groan when it began to play, and he did, too… but honestly, he knew why people liked it. Here, where no one could cry, they let the music cry for them.

“Mamá loved it,” Jorge said. “Loves it.” He shook his head. “And that’s the thing, you know? Every year I go to see her, and it’s wonderful. Everything has color. There are plants. I forgot what real green looked like. There’s a tree right out my window… But… she changes. Papá changes. I have a brother now, too, that I never even knew about. Like I’m being replaced…”

“No… No, no, listen it’s not like that…” He knelt to get at eye level. “Listen, no one can replace you. _No one._ Your _hermanito_? He’ll grow up hearing stories about his awesome _hermano_ who plays games and drives cars and loves animals.”

There was a tap and Héctor looked up to see a multicolored armadillo like _alibrije_ tapping on the window with its claws. Jorge opened the window and let it in, petting it as it settled on his lap. Héctor smiled a bit, glad Jorge had one. Not everyone did. Sometimes they took a while to show up, he’d heard, and sometimes people didn’t recognize them or even turned them away. Where they went after that, who knew?

“You’ve been here a while, hey?” Jorge said, looking over at him. “Does it ever get easier? Coming back after all that? Wanting to _live_ again?”

“ _Sí_ ,” Héctor said, a lie he had told a thousand times. “One day this will be home to you… And not a bad home, eh?” He rose and gestured. “ _Mira!_ No one is hungry, no one is thirsty, no one can die which is a bonus. _And_ you can learn to do this!” He took off his head, bouncing it from hand to hand, trying to make the kid smile. Jorge did, a little, which was a relief because he was getting a little dizzy.

“You’ve been here too long, _T_ _ío._ ”

Tell me about it, he wanted to say, screwing his skull back on. Jorge sniffed and straightened, opening the doors once more as people were starting to crowd around the entrance.

“I’ve got to head back down the line. Coming with?”

“Nah, got places to be,” Héctor said, pressing himself out of the way as the flood of _esqueletos_ entered the _tranv_ _ía_. “ _Hasta luego,_ Jorge.”

“ _Hasta Luego_ and _buena fiesta!_ Say hi to your _familia_ for me, eh?”

“ _Buena fiesta_ ,” Héctor said, slipping out onto the platform and waving as the _tranv_ _ía_ went back the way it had come. He felt a small stab of jealousy. What would it be like to go home and see green things? _Growing_ things? Nothing grew here. Not really. Nothing was even alive save for the _alibrijes_ and th _e cempas_ _úchil_ petals possibly, but even they dried up sometime in February as if all the hope they’d carried with them was gone.

“ _Ay_ , _muchacho_ , can you please _stop_ ,” he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his head. This was not going to help _anyone_. He started forward, through the crowds, because walking at least kept his mind busy. What should he do now? Where should he go? How to you make a good choice when no choice seemed to be the _right_ choice? He’d heard you were supposed to follow your heart, but that was what had gotten him in all this to begin with. So maybe that was faulty. He’d never had an _alibrije_ and had never felt the need for one. So what should he do? Flip a coin? Close his eyes and point?

Dante barked.

Héctor looked up and his heart jammed in his throat as he saw the back of someone short with a pulled up red hoodie, making their way hurriedly through the crowd on the other side of the track.

“Wait--!” he said, reaching out, running, stumbling, trying to get through the crowds without knocking anything over. It wasn’t--! It couldn’t be--! And yet--! Ah, he was still too far away. With a running jump he tried to clear the track, making it of a sort and wincing as he heard the crack of bone. Somehow he pulled himself up, trying to run, but stumbling to one knee; staring after the dwindling shape.

“ _Esperame! Chamaco!_ ” he called. The figure half turned to get on a _tranv_ _ía,_ a long braid spilling from her hood. Oh… _Estupido_ , he thought to himself, aware of people looking at him and murmuring. He shook his head and tried to get to his feet once more only to see the shin on his good leg had fractured, the lower half coming out at near ninety-degree angle to a sharp point.

“Bah! _Estupido. **Estupido**_.” There was no way he could walk like this. He ripped the sleeve from his _chaqueta_ , remembering only last minute that Imelda was the one that had patched it up for him, and tied it back in place as best as he could. He’d need to find more duct tape somewhere. He tested his weight, and found he could walk if he didn’t press too hard and stalked, shoulders hunched through the crowd. Dante came up to his side, panting, tail wagging, wings fluttering. Happy as a dog could be.

“Some spirit guide _you_ are.” It reminded him all too painfully of the few times he’d thought he’d seen Coco here. Had never caught up to her-- which was a good thing, probably or he might have scared a _ni_ _ña_ to pieces… though sometimes those sightings had been… _fantasma_ … a ghost… a wish made real but only for a moment. One time he had been _so sure_ it was her, until he saw she was standing over the water, floating, non-reflecting. She’d looked over her narrow shoulder and said ‘Papá’. He had _heard_ her that time, her sweet sad voice. Had reached out, seeing the glow of skin on his fingers and felt his clothes against him, breath catching, heart straining.

And she’d vanished as if she had never been, because she never had, not here.

If he hadn’t had music then, he didn’t know what he might have done. At least it was an old pain now, and, honestly, he was _glad_ Miguel hadn’t returned because that would mean he was dead and he didn’t think anyone in the _familia_ could recover from that one. He sat on a nearby bench, watching absently the arrivals board flicker from red to green and, as if on cue, ‘Remember Me’ began to play in a light happy way with dingle bells in the background.

“ _Why_ ,” he groaned, letting his head fall back, staring at the arched ceiling.

But… she had remembered him. Maybe not missed him enough to put his photo up, but he was still somewhere inside her heart. She was with Miguel right now, he imagined, telling him a story of them. Not that she had many to tell… He wondered what Miguel might tell her. He wondered how Miguel was. A _m_ _úsico_ in a family that hated music. Imelda had said no conditions, he remembered that, but it wasn’t anything his _familia_ would know. Would he struggle to show them? Or would he hide that little spark of magic inside because _familia_ came first? Miguel had come to understand that. Had used that to help _him._

“ _Familia_ comes first,” he murmured. He knew that. Understood it… And Imelda had wanted him to be part of it again. Maybe not as he once was but -- a part of it. Héctor _still_ wasn’t sure how he could play music again or bring it back into the family like Imelda seemed to want; but that was for another day. Today, at least, he could take another stab at at least getting along. Figuring how this whole _familia_ thing worked.

Dante barked as if agreeing and Héctor gave him a mock glare, before smiling and ruffling his ears.

“Guess you’re not so bad after all, eh?”

After all, how bad could it be? Héctor thought. Imelda wasn’t even expecting him to show up, so actually being there could only work in his favor. He could do this. _No problema._

o.o.o.o.o.o

Big _problema._ This was a mistake. He couldn’t do this. Héctor stared at the hacienda gates, arms wrapped around himself as a dozen scenarios spilled through his head, each more terrible than the last. Imelda _wasn_ _’t_ expecting him which meant there was no way he was going to come at a good time. What if he interrupted something big? Or caused a problem? Sure she’d reach in and pull his heart out from behind his ribs again, she was good at that these days and he’d almost gotten used to the sensation of being near breathless from the pain. That was fine and he deserved it anyway, but when she was upset the _familia_ got _muy_ upset and what if their fight got worse?

“Maybe I should have borrowed that costume after all,” he muttered, half to himself. It had been a wild idea and still a one he was attached to despite how _loco_ it sounded. If he came in some sort of disguise they could get to know and like him without knowing it was him. And then, _sorpresa!_ It was actually _Primo_ Héctor here for a visit.

Dante whined and he couldn’t help but agree with the _alibrije._

“Imelda would see through it in a second.” Also Ceci wasn’t talking to him still and she was his main supplier. There was no way he was going to get something dramatic on such short notice. So _what_ then? What could he do? Should he have brought a gift? Gifts? Maybe he could just walk in there like nearly a century of pain and worry hadn’t happened and invite them all out to a round of drinks!

At a very quiet bar.

Even if he had pretty much nothing to his name right now.

And the last time that had happened hadn’t gone so well.

“ _Ay,_ how do I do this. This is impossible. There is no way they’re going to come to want me around. Just no way.” But he had to give it a shot! He marched up to the gate as best he could and then stopped. What if it was a _really_ bad time and he drove them apart even further? How was that going to help anyone? He could leave, but what if he left and Imelda saw him leave --or one of the others and it upset them? Groaning, Héctor clutched his hands over his head. How did he always get himself in this kind of situation?!

“Ahhh, okay okay!” Héctor straightened and shook himself out a bit. He could do this. He _could._ Clearly he couldn’t just leave, but if he was going to go in, he was going to go in _smart_. He would just go in and read the situation and if it was bad he would just pretend he didn’t notice and ask to borrow-- a cup of flour or something and be on his way.

_Sí_. Good. That could work.

He pushed at the gate, and against something hard. There was a squeak and a clattering thump. Héctor winced. Oh no. Oh no no no. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to know. But he steeled himself and peered around the gate anyway. Rosita was sitting on the ground, hat in her eyes, basket on the ground beside her. _Ay Dios mio._ He hissed in a breath through his teeth, wondering if he should just cut his losses and run but knowing he was in for it now regardless.

“Ah… _lo siento_ ,” he said, plucking her hat from over her eyes and handing it to her. She blinked up at him.

“You…”

“ _Sí._ _”_ He swept up her basket and offered a hand to help her up but she was already on her feet, brushing off her skirt, looking surprised to see him there.

 “I… was just going to borrow a cup of flour...” Héctor started.

“ _Ay di mi_!” she said, putting a hand to her face. “What happened to your leg?!”

“Huh?” He looked down and saw that the sharp edge was starting to come through the makeshift bandage. Then he heard a creak as if a door was being opened somewhere and flailed backward in panic, tripping over Dante and landing hard outside the gate, wincing as his bones jarred and feeling like an idiot.

“Are you alright, _Tia_?” Victoria’s voice. Of course it would be.

“ _Sí_!” Rosita said lightly, looking over her shoulder into the courtyard. “Just tripped over my own feet!” She giggled and then waved. “Be back soon!” And shut the gate behind her. Héctor gave her a sheepish smile as he levered himself upright, though ended up having to lean against the wall as his leg sagged a bit underneath him.

“Oh you poor man. Whatever happened…?” she said, hand once more against her cheek.

“Just… a little accident…” The truth was entirely too embarrassing to admit. “Absolutely nothing to worry about.” He added with a grin, seeing her concern. “Just needs a little duct tape and--”

“Duct tape? _Que horrible_! You should see a doctor!”

“Ah… no, _gracias_.” Doctors were few and far between here, as far as he knew, and he didn’t even have anything to offer in exchange. Also they were a liittle terrifying.

“But you can barely walk. There’s a doctor just down the road. We go to her for shop accidents all the time and she does like to keep busy.” Rosita extended a hand. “ _Porfa?_ ”

 Héctor couldn’t help but look at that hand, feeling a rush of warmth that she was actually trying to look after him despite-- well despite everything. How could he turn that away? It seemed like, if not a promise, a small nugget of hope that things would be alright somehow.

“O- ok.” He’d go, and hopefully, somehow, find a way to pay her back.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Héctor sat on the table, rubbing his arm and trying very hard not to cringe away from the white haired doctor that was applying a splint to his shin. It was surreal. He’d never been to a doctor before in his _life_ , let alone after life. He’d expected it to be a dark room, dimly lit with candles, and crude instruments and needles lining the walls. He’d heard _stories_ of doctors. How they’d saw off legs or arms or cut open people not even dead or bleed you or make you drink terrible things that smelled like hell. He even had a very faint memory of a doctor arriving at the _orphananto_ and all the kids, including himself, scattering like birds.

Either things had changed or the Land of the Dead was different about that sort of thing. Instead of a dimly lit room with soot covered walls, it was sterile and white-- with posters depicting broken bones in various ways. Spliced, shattered, snapped completely in half. A kind of white light above buzzed mercilessly down. And the doctor herself had said, somberly, just before she’d set his shin back in place that: ‘this might hurt.’

That felt like a bad trick to play on someone in a place that ran on memory. It hadn’t hurt but he’d yelped anyway in the anticipation of it. She didn’t even so much as apologize, not that he expected her to. More than that, every once in a while her fingers brushed against his shin, sending faint vibrations up and it made him want to grab his hat and make a mad dash out of the room. At least Dante was with him, sitting in a chair nearby and panting, a q-tip lodged in his nose. Why there were even q-tips here, he didn’t get. What could someone possibly use with them?

The sound of china clinking came in through the open door that lead into the house beyond, reminding him that Rosita was there and he wasn’t sure what to make of that either. He’d expected her just to drop him off, explain the situation and go-- not…wait around. What was he even going to say to her? Where was this even going to end? He felt bad for wasting her time like this, but telling her he didn’t need her to wait seemed rude somehow.

Finally the doctor pulled away and he couldn’t quite stop the sigh of relief that came out of him. She gave him a look through her large oval glasses, a deep frown on her face. A chill went through him.

“I’m sorry to say this _Senor_ Rivera--” she said. _Senor_ was also weird after so long and another colder chill went through him at the thought of Imelda finding out she’d called him that. What could it be? Would his leg not heal? Had she discovered something even worse? He didn’t think he _could_ get sick any more but…

She drew in a breath as if prepared to say something painful.

“--It appears you’re dead.”

He glowered at her.

“Funny.” Why did she have to get him so worked up for? He’d been really worried there for a second. She gave him a small smirk and put the bandages away before folding her arms and giving him a look.

“Well you are, but the rest of your afterlife won’t be pleasant if you don’t take better care of yourself. Your bones are more brittle than most and the healing will be much slower because of it.” She gestured. “That alone will take a week. Maybe two.”

“Really?” he said, not sure he’d heard her right. “Two weeks?”

“Mm. Fortunately, you’re fairly light so you should be able to walk without a problem until it does heal, but if you have trouble or it doesn’t--”

“Two weeks? As in fourteen days?”

“ _Sí_ ,” she said. “I know it’s difficult but that is the cost of aging, even here.”

Héctor could only nod, staring at the strange splint on his leg and the bandage covering up the fracture. This would be healed in two weeks? He hadn’t had that quick a turn around in decades. Lately it had taken things months to heal if at all. Was this because he was being remembered? Because of Coco? Because of Miguelito? A strong feeling went through him, like the push of an ocean wave, a warm, welcome but almost inescapable pressure. He couldn’t name it. He couldn’t even _express_ it. If he had a guitar, he thought, he could play it out. Tease out the meaning in humming chords until the words followed. Starting out slow and somber maybe but then building up-- to what?

“ _Senor_ Rivera,” the doctor said, pulling him out of his thoughts. She waved a hand at him. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss the rest of you?”

“No, _gracias_ ,” he said, getting hurriedly to his feet and snatching his hat up. “You’ve been a great help. I appreciate it.” He gave her a grin and then darted into the house before she could argue. Not even the strongest fascinating emotion could keep him in there longer than he had to be. He’d bring by an offering for later. Something worth the trouble. It couldn’t be that much could it?

 He was stopped from diving headlong out the door when he caught sight of Rosita on the sofa, sipping tea and giving him a smile.

“Feel better?” she said.

“ _Sí. Gracias_. _”_ And then he had to grab Dante around the middle to keep the _alibrije_ from diving headlong at the tin of cookies sitting out on a _muy_ expensive looking coffee table.

“Shall I charge it then?” the doctor said and Héctor winced. Too late.

“ _Sí_ ,” Rosita said. “Just send the bill over whenever you’re ready.”

“What? No, no, no,” Héctor said, clamping the dog between his legs, trapping his small wings at his sides, but that didn’t keep his claws from scrabbling at the tile. “You can’t do that.”

“But we can,” Rosita said, brightly. “It’s not very much at all. And anyway, Mamá Imelda would want you looked after.”

“I don’t want to trouble her…”

“You’re not trouble,” she said, which had to be the biggest lie he’d ever heard; even bigger than the one he told Jorge. “You’re _familia._ ”

He fought a sigh. Well, he wouldn’t argue with that, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. For a single shining moment, right after the concert when they were going to send Miguel home the first time, he’d felt a sense of what that was supposed to be like. Of being supported. Like standing in a house instead of inns or hotels or shanties. But somehow… somewhere he’d lost it. That solid feeling had slipped like a _fantasma_ through his fingers, if it had only ever been a hope, a distant dream.

It was because of music, he thought, as he tugged Dante up and followed Rosita back out into the day. It was music that had driven him away from his small beautiful family. Music which had driven Ernesto to poison him. Music that had almost gotten Miguel killed as well, in more than one way. He could understand why Imelda had hated it for so long, even if he never could himself. Even though he knew it had been the basis of all these terrible things… it still _lived_ in him. Even on days he hated himself the most, a small still part of him wanted to pick up a guitar and discover what that sounded like. To write the words, probably bitter enough to make the paper curl all on its own.

Rosita stopped and he did, too, realizing they were at a _tranv_ _ía_ stop.

“You seem a little lost, _Primo_ ,” she said, sitting on the bench and patting the seat beside her. “Want to talk about it?”

No, not really. She couldn’t understand and this thought was a secret one that he preferred to keep close to himself. It felt safer that way. Still he sat beside her, absently petting Dante’s head as the dog squirmed between his legs and rested his chin on Héctor’s knee.

“Are you sure having music back will be a good thing?” he said. Though he wasn’t asking to change her mind. Imelda had Decided and once she’d Decided anything not even God could offer much push back.

“ _Sí!_ Of course!” Rosita said. “Music is a wonderful thing! And now that everything’s over, I don’t see why it can’t be. Mamá Imelda just has to get used to it again, that’s all.”

Héctor smirked a little. It was the same thing as saying: we just have to lift this ten ton boulder off the railroad tracks with our bare hands. That’s all. But why should she have to get used to it? Why should she always have to make the sacrifice? Hadn’t she done that enough? He knew it was for Coco but would Coco really be happy with her mother having to do so much for her well being?

“And she did enjoy that singing,” Rosita said, a hand to her chest. “What a beautiful voice.”

“ _Sí_.” That he could agree on at least. It had changed a bit from what he’d remembered, deepened a little, roughened a bit…and had become all the more powerful for it. Once she got into it she could knock everyone right out of their seats and he was glad to see that that was still in her. But was one great night on the stage in a tense moment enough to change everything? To make music feel good again?

“Of course, Coco will enjoy it too…” Rosita said, almost as if to herself. _Ay._ Here it came. “She used to sneak out all the time to listen to the _m_ _úsicos_ in the plaza. Even when the girls were children. She would tell me wonderful stories of who was there and what was playing and how she’d danced.”

It sounded wonderful. Magical. But he couldn’t get his heart into it because he knew that something was going to happen. Tragedy seemed to bite at their heels like street dogs. Dante huffed as if hearing this thought somehow and Héctor smiled an apology, massaging one brightly colored ear.

“I also think she hoped that one day—” Rosita stopped, clenched her fingers on the basket handle before continuing. “—But she _loved_ it so much, before--” Rosita stopped again. Smiled brightly. She was trying to dodge so hard he didn’t ask. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“She would be _happy_ to have music back,” Rosita said. “And Mamá Imelda too… after a while…”

He wanted to believe in that. To trust that if he just held out, everything would be alright.

“No…” Héctor said, pushing Dante’s head away so he could stand up. Needed to stand up. To move. Shake off all this… “No, I’m not going to do it again. If music comes it’s not going to be from me…”

“But…but when you played… It was so romantic…” she sounded upset. Of course she did. But he couldn’t let this go.

“Romance isn’t everything. Love isn’t— Love is _wonderful_. But it’s not enough. One song isn’t enough. One _night_ isn’t enough. None of the _familia_ can even stand to look at me for more than ten minutes.” He spread his hands. “How is Coco going to feel if she comes back to that? To this fighting? To me showing up and everything— everything falling apart? To her precious _familia_ destroyed.”

“Oh you mustn’t think that,” Rosita said, moving to take his hands but he got them out of the way just in time, putting them on his hips instead. He didn’t understand her. Maybe she just wanted music back so much she didn’t care.

“You mustn’t!” Rosita repeated. “Do you think you’re the hardest thing we’ve ever been through?” Héctor looked back, surprised to find her face hard. “There is so much that happens in life to argue over, to fight about, to have disagreements. How much do you risk for a better life? How tightly do you hold onto the _familia_ ideals, when to look the other way— what to do when someone is dying or when tragedy strikes. Mamá Imelda doesn’t even know—”

She looked away, let out a breath, then back at him just as fierce.

“You listen here.” She patted her foot against the ground. “When our father died, I had nowhere to go but to stay with Julio… and I was afraid. I was so afraid because everyone was telling me how awful it would be… What I would have to go through because I am only related through my _hermanito_ _’s_ marriage. I _loved_ music and I _hated_ the thought of shoe making… I thought I would do all the grudge work. The cooking and the cleaning and things no one else wanted to do.

But Mamá Imelda… she took me in. She took me under her wing. It was like my own Mamá…” she blinked rapidly. “… My own Mamá had come back somehow. I shared a room with Coco. We all pitched in on chores. Mamá Imelda helped me learn what I could enjoy from shoe making and she loved every meal I ever cooked. I _taught_ her. _Sí_ things could be hard and _sí_ she could be strict and _sí_ no music was sometimes difficult to bear… but it was worth it…Mamá Imelda always said that shoe making held the family together but… but… you know what? You know what?”

She popped her fist against the wood of the bench, making him startle a little and maybe herself too.

“She was wrong,” Rosita said, then seemed surprised at herself. “She was. She is. It’s not about shoe making. That’s our pride and our identity but it’s not us. It’s not why. It’s love.” She lifted her head, full of a different kind of pride. “We love Mamá Imelda. We love one another. Even when we’re angry. And so long as we have that love, as long as we keep it and nurture it and keep the flame lit, nothing can tear this _familia_ apart. Not you. Not music. Not life. Not death. Nothing.”

“Wow…” Héctor sat where he was. That was…intense. Beautiful. The feeling once more surged through him. The same unidentifiable emotion, like sparkling water through his veins if he had them. Rosita stood, offering her hand to him.

“And…it should be you, too,” she said. “Miguelito was right. You are our _familia_. And it’s going to be rough getting used to the change but we will… You will… Because if nothing else, we all love Coco. And I think… no I’m sure… that every time she went to that plaza, just to dance. Or every time a _m_ _úsico_ grabbed her attention, or every time she looked down the road at night and wouldn’t say why; she was hoping you would come home. She was looking for her Papá…”

That hurt. It hurt so much. Guilt twisted through him. So why did it make him happy.

“Music or not doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “But _porfa,_ Pri— no— _T_ _ío._ Help us. Give us a chance. You’ve been gone a very long time and the hurt is very deep but… there’s nothing we can’t get through if we go through it together…”

He took her hand. She helped him up, then giggled faintly and looked away, hand to her cheek.

“ _Lo siento_ , I’m not usually like this. I feel like I should hug you but…I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. So…”

He hugged her instead. Brief and fierce. He was full of swirling emotions which he didn’t even know how to begin to sort through but this was one thing he could do. He wasn’t sure what to tell her. Not yet. Everything was still too muddled to even begin to figure out a response. But he wanted to do _something._

When he pulled back she giggled again, flapping her hand, then adjusting her hat and picking up her basket. Héctor stepped back with a half laugh, rubbing his arm, wondering what to do from here. For a moment they both watched Dante sitting in the shade, apparently trying to eat his own leg. Héctor wanted to keep moving. To walk. To stop the swirl of the tide for just a moment, but how could he excuse himself?

The ringing of the incoming air _tranv_ _ía_ made him sigh with relief and Rosita did too. He chuckled again as she did and it was awkward but not in the sense that he wanted to hide.

“I’m… um… doing a little shopping for the gala tonight,” Rosita said. “Would you care to join me?”

“No, _gracias_. I have to meet someone.” A lie but at least not a terrible lie. She nodded and seemed to want to say something but then just smiled and wiggled her fingers in a wave. He returned the gesture and watched her step in and settle down. The _tranv_ _ía_ rang again and glided upwards into the city.

“Come on, _perrito_ ,” he said absently to Dante, tapping his thigh before starting away— not really sure where he was going but the destination not really mattering.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Night had fallen. Evening really. Lights flickered like stars all around him, going up and up and down and down full with more people than he could think about. _tranv_ _ías_ passed by on their way from here to there, in the air and on the ground. As he passed houses he could hear sounds from the open windows, snatches of music, the chatter of television, laughter and crying from one dark window he might have lingered too long under. The emotions had settled somewhat, though he didn’t understand them any better. It was grief but it was happiness too, bitterness and regret but relief, wonder and pain, guilt and hope… More than anyone should be able to hold at one time. Above it all was a burning question, one that he had never asked and was afraid to ask because of the answer. Whatever it was would only give him much more to think about.

But he needed to ask it. It surged in his gut. It burned in his mouth. It sat in his throat like a song wanting to escape. Four simple words. He was approaching the hacienda now from the other side, letting the feelings carry him, the words buzz in his head; trying not to think of anything else or he knew he would keep on going.

The gates were open, light spilled out onto the street. There was a rumble of a car starting to life nearby which he noted only as something interesting, but didn’t let it stop him. He hesitated for a moment at the gate, then peered around it. The _familia_ was gathered there in the courtyard, save for Julio and Imelda. They didn’t seem to notice him. Not even Rosita. She’d said something about a gala, hadn’t she? That was probably where they were going. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea right now, he thought. Even though he was going to give them a chance, he would hate to ruin their night.

Then Imelda came out into the courtyard, brushing out the wrinkles of her dress in an old habit he’d seen a thousand times.

_Ay_ _…_

_Hermosa_ _…_

_Muy hermosa_ _…_

So _hermosa_ it almost drove every other thought out of his head.

She was in a dark burgundy dress he’d never seen before, sleeves off the shoulder which she liked to do when she wanted to make an impression. The color softened the whiteness of her bones, made them seem warmer somehow. A deep red stone sat in the center of her choker too, catching the light and the same color ribbon was braided through her thick black hair. A distant part of him, mostly lost to shadows and time, wanted to pull it out; knew by muscle memory just the way to do it so her hair would come tumbling down in a thick, dark, wave. To bury his face in that warm hair one more time. To loop his arms around her waist and feel as she leaned back against him, content and relaxed, humming under her breath as her fingers pushed through his hair, tingling along his scalp. How could the world ever begin to compare to that?

She looked up, and even though he hadn’t moved and was hardly in the light, she spotted him. Her mouth opened and then closed, annoyed. She lifted her head, the light glinting off her simple gold earrings. ‘What do you want?’ she was saying. ‘What are you doing here?’

He gave her an apologetic smile, knowing he was interfering once again, but raised his hand only a little, palm up, asking if she would come to him. She regarded him for a moment, her eyes dark, face unreadable, mysterious as the evening. At first he thought she wouldn’t, but then she started forward, face set in her ‘taking on the world’ expression.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to take her hands in his, spin her around, show her that he wasn’t something she had to take on. That he was there for her and for them and she could rely on him. The greatest mistake of his life. Of his _life._ But that was past. He couldn’t change it. She gave him a look as she came closer, and he tilted his head, asking her to come with him around the gate. She sighed and, after looking over her shoulder into the courtyard, followed.

He leaned against the wall in the shadows, staring up at the endless nothing of the Land of the Dead.

“What is it, Héctor?” she said, voice hushed. He glanced down at her.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

Her eyes widened and her hand went to her hair, and then she scowled.

“You did not come here to tell me that,” she said. No… But he wanted to.

“Did…” He couldn’t speak for a moment so he let out a slow breath and tried again. “Did Coco love me…”

Imelda said nothing. He was afraid to look at her. Afraid of hearing her. Time seemed to stop on a single moment of waiting but also seemed stretched to eternity. Finally, she sighed.

“Of course she did, _idiota_ ,” she murmured. “Why do you think it was so hard?”

He didn’t know what to do with that. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. Emotion was thick and turbulent inside him with nowhere to go. She had loved him. His poor, sad, sweet _hija_.

“I love her too,” he managed to rasp out.

“I know…” Imelda said.

“Mamá Imelda?” Victoria called. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head turn toward them, the _familia_ she loved and who loved her _so_ so much.

“I have to go,” Imelda said, a hand on his arm. Then she leaned up and there was the faint hint of scent in the air, light and precious. He didn’t dare turn toward it. She kissed his cheek, a small burst of warmth. “Will you come back soon?”

“ _Sí_.”

“ _Buenos noches_ , Teto,” she murmured. She could drown him with a word. He wanted to pull her back. Wanted to apologize all over again for everything. But he didn’t. Instead he looked up once more, sighing shakily. A lone air _tranv_ _ía_ made its way up, rising and rising, dwindling so he could no longer see it.

 


	8. Historia de Héctor: Malagueña Salerosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor loves Imelda. He also loves Ernesto. But loving them both together in San Menas is a little wearing, especially when trying to be músico while working with a guy like Ruiz. He'll manage, of course, but in a situation like this, something has got to give.

It is near dawn when Héctor closes the door for the last time. The world is dim, a chill clings to the ground in the form of scant mist and what remains of the night air is a cold breath against his skin. He brushes his fingers against the smooth wood of the door. This little room, barely bigger than a shed, had been his and Ernesto’s ever since the incident at the _orphanato._ It had one narrow bed, made largely of lumps, two splintery chairs, a wobbly table and a small chest to keep both their clothes in. The room had been cold at night and like an oven in the heat of the day and the window never shut quite right. It had been amazing.

 He remembers long nights they had spent at the table, talking of their dream in hushed voices or playing cards badly by the light of the single candle. In the morning, when Ernesto still had to wake up in mornings, Héctor would watch the sun rise to kiss the walls and streets of Santa Cecilia, chasing the mists away. These past few months, though, he’d barely seen the room at all. Most of the time they had been in San Menas. And ever since Ernesto had moved to the city permanently, Héctor had just used the room to sleep until the heat had driven him out to the cantina, or a vendor in the plaza, or to the well to wash away last night’s hangover.

 Héctor feels as if he’d grown up in this room, though he can’t say why. It should be the _orphanato_ , that brings back such nostalgia, but whenever he thinks of that place it feels like a graveyard; full of empty rooms and skeletal halls and silence where only dust blew. He rests his forehead against the door of the room. Here they had learned how to play Black Jack and Rummy. Here they’d talked and laughed. Here he’d grown too big to sleep beside Ernesto in any way comfortable that didn’t end up with an elbow to the face, so they’d had to take turns on the floor. Here he’d given the twins their first shots of tequila and the poor _ni_ _ños_ had managed to tip ass over elbows into a pig pen and had yanked Héctor down when he’d laughed at them.

And now he would be leaving it behind. Leaving Santa Cecilia behind for a long time… A strange mix of joy and regret twist through him. No… Not regret… A kind of longing… for what he didn’t know. Nothing he wanted, but a sore, sorrowful feeling full of reaching back. Perhaps the room is saying goodbye.

“ _Adi_ _ós_ , _viejo_ _amigo,_ _”_ he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the door before sliding the key under it and lifting his suitcase, walking backwards. “And _gracias_. When I return, I’ll be famous.”

There is a kind of breathing then, a waiting silence, a sense of being on the edge of something exciting. The suitcase ruins the moment by releasing itself from its handle and thumping on the road, springing open and sending his best shirt half flopping out. He rolls his eyes and stuffs it back in, then after a moment of consideration, the handle, too; before latching the suitcase shut and picking it up under his arm. He’d gotten it cheap from his first official gig as a _m_ _úsico_. It had nearly taken all that money, too; but at the time it had felt like a good luck charm, a symbol of his future.

Now it just feels like an old suitcase that he paid too much for.

There’s a lot going on in San Menas that he’s not happy about either. He enjoys it, though it’s hard work. There are more places to eat and drink at, more people to see— people from all over Mexico because of the rail line! There is music everywhere to listen to and learn from and he still wants to get a look at that _ocho_ mobile and the fancy _hombre_ it’s attached to. The future seems bright and full of potential.

That is… if Ruiz is telling the truth, which Héctor isn’t sure of. Everything seems to be taking so long. There are setbacks after setbacks. Ernesto believes in Ruiz though. Says that it takes time but once the place is built, they can have huge audiences with little need to work for it. After all, everyone comes by the train station. They already are working for it, Héctor feels like. And hard, too; giving Ruiz half a cut of whatever they make. And in return he gives them promises and a meal a day, which just doesn’t seem like enough. But he'll go along with it a little while longer... since Ruiz has finally leased the building; or so he says.

In the meantime, Héctor tries not to think about it. He makes his way as quietly as he can, not wanting to break the morning stillness. There’s something peaceful about Santa Cecilia in the mornings… full of ghosts and memories. He stops for a moment at the _m_ _úsico’s_ plaza, remembering all the times he’s played there and all the times he’d wanted to. Remembering… La Llorona, he thinks with a faint smirk… Imelda…

_Ay_ _…_

He begins to walk once more. It won’t be too much longer before he’s at the cleric house. Before he’s saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to, but what can he do? She doesn’t seem to want to come with him and the padre had told him that: ‘she’ll be leaving soon, _mijo_. To a much better life.’ Whatever that means.

 He’ll miss her.

He’d missed her once already when she’d gone to the _convento_ and the padre doubted she’d ever be back. The kitchen had seemed empty without her. He’d missed her watching him with those dark eyes, and being annoyed at him, or the times he could make the corners of her mouth curl up. He’d missed the way her soft arms had come around his shoulders as she leaned on him, and he’d wanted it to happen again—only when she wasn’t crying and missing her _hermanitos._

_Caramba_ , had that wish come true! Héctor still isn’t sure what he did to make all _this_ happen. One minute Imelda was as mad at him as ever and the next she was stroking his face with cool fingers, and nails that made goosebumps rise on his arms. She was knocking him against walls to kiss him. She was smiling at him, laughing with him, dancing with a challenge in her eyes and leaning against him, breathing in exertion against his neck. She was kissing him in the rain, in the sun, under the shade of trees… A warm chill goes through him as he remembers the way she’d played his guitar, thumb stroking the strings, hesitantly, then more sure; pulling the sighing sound from them.  He remembers playing with her a little tune… The sound of her singing, soft against his ear…

He’s still surprised he didn’t melt right into the ground!

All that and he isn’t even sure if she likes him. It doesn’t matter if she does or not so long as she wants to kiss him. So long as her fingers hook against the back of his neck and he’s pulled down against the softness of her open mouth. So long as he can make her smile in the bright way and the secret way with the corner of her mouth and the slow brush of her lashes.

Only this will be the last time he’ll see her for who knows how long… and maybe it’s a good thing. After all, maybe she enjoys being a maid, he doesn’t know. But…he doesn’t think so. She never seemed to be happy there, and now he knew that she _could_ be happy, he was worried about her being so far away… From Santa Cecilia, from her boys, maybe even from music; to a strange place in the country where no one would know about her and maybe not even care.

He stops, finding himself in front of the kitchen door of the cleric house. Should he try to convince her one last time? That the world can be so much more than kitchens and cleaning and _conventos_? That she can sing and dance whenever she wants, just like he did? Or would that be selfish? Would that be _Se_ _ñora_ Flores all over again? He turns away, looking out into the street, thinking. He doesn’t want to hurt her and if this is what she wants to do, he shouldn’t try to tell her otherwise.

So, he will just say:

“Imelda,” he murmurs to himself. “ _Gracias_.” Gracias? For what? Kissing? Well, _s_ _í,_ he could but that doesn’t seem right, and anyway there isn’t thanks enough he can give her for that. “I’ll miss you.” _S_ _í_ , definitely. Because he will. Though this time will he even see her again? “I’ll visit you… I promise…wherever you are…”

He considers this, feeling the words skim through him.

“Wherever you are I will find you,” he sings softly to himself. “You are the one that I— long to…” Long to what? “Bah.” This isn’t the time anyway! He’s trying to say goodbye to Imelda! Not write another cantina tune. This one isn’t a cantina tune anyway, it is something different… it is—

Something juts hard into his lower back. He yelps and dances out of the way, turning to see Imelda behind the kitchen door, giving him a flat, annoyed look. He gives her a sheepish smile in return, not even having a hand free to wiggle his fingers in an ‘hola’. He watches her step out into the pale bluish light instead, her hair tucked and braided neatly over the crown of her head— her red shawl tied around her shoulders and bulging softly as if she’s carrying something to market. She must be because she has a basket too, covered with cloth. She watches him, tucking a strand of hair over her ear, raising her eyebrows.

Here it comes. Time to say goodbye. Just… get the words out. Goodbye. _Adi_ _ós_. _Hasta Luego_. He didn’t know when he would see her again, but he would miss her every day. Let her go her own way and he his.

“Imelda…” he says, voice rust in his throat. “Will you come with me?”

“ _S_ _í_.” She murmurs. Which is what he expected. How could he have hoped other—

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

“ _S_ _í?”_ he repeats, hardly daring to believe it. She gives him a look.

“What do you think I packed fo— _ah!_ ”

With a laugh he lifts her by the waist, spinning them both around. “WAAHEYHEYHEYOO!”

“ _Callete!_ ” she hisses, covering his mouth with a hand. “Do you want to wake the whole town?!”

“Sí,” he mumbles against her palm, kissing it. He wants the whole world to know! Imelda is going with him!

“No! If you do that again I’ll stay right here!” she says, and he deflates a bit though he doesn’t believe her. Ah, he doesn’t want to put her down! He wants to _dance_ all the way to San Menas! No, _fly!_ She’s coming with him! He spins them around again, unable to resist, feeling her cling to his neck.

“Put me down, already!” she whispers, foot catching him lightly in the shin. He reluctantly puts her down. She glares at him, breath heaving a bit. Her braid comes loose and flops onto her shoulder. He wonders if he should risk kissing her, but before he can she pushes the braid over her shoulder and makes an impatient sound.

“Look, Teto, now your clothes are all over the street.”

“What? _Ay_ _…_ ” The ratty old suitcase had sprung open again, spilling his clothes everywhere. She sighs and pushes her basket at him. He holds it obediently, realizing what she’s about to do at the last moment. He decides not to say anything as he watches her fold his clothes and put them back in, just like she’d done for her brothers, packing their little matching suitcases with precision. It’s embarrassing somehow, and he can’t watch, instead looking at the basket. The cloth on the basket wriggles and Sofia pokes her head out, looking dazed. He smiles and scratches her under the chin, listening to her little purr as tiny claws flex against the basket’s edge.

“You need to be more careful,” Imelda says, latching the suitcase shut and then looking puzzled as to how to pick it up.

“ _S_ _í._ ” He scoops it off the ground before she can try, juggling it under his arm again and handing her back the basket. He realizes with a wince that he dropped the guitar case too and quickly peeks inside. Everything seems to be alright. Breathing a sigh of relief, he picks up his guitar case and smiles at Imelda.

They are going to San Menas.

Together.

Another wave of giddiness goes through him and he fights it down before he can do something embarrassing again.

“Ready?” he says. She glances at the cleric house one more time. He wonders what she’s thinking about. Is it like home to her? As the room was to him? Or did it mean something more? Was she letting go of something or just saying goodbye.

“ _Vayamos,_ _”_ she says, as if to herself. Turning, she looks up at him as if just remembering he is there and a smile lifts the corner of her mouth, some secret hiding behind the veil of her lashes…. He wants to kiss her, or at least hold her hand, but he has no hands free and she’s started to walk.

“This way,” he says in a low voice. They move through the quiet town, the mist thinning around their feet as the sun makes the horizon a faint red. He absorbs the silence, like a rest, a beat of stillness between the next chord or a breath between the next song. Somewhere a bird starts to chirp in a tired way and he smiles.

“ _Buenos Dias_ , _amigo_ ,” he murmurs. There is a shift of movement out of the corner of his eye and he looks over to find Imelda watching him, an unreadable quiet in her eyes. He bounces his eyebrows at her just to make her smile and she does in that pressed lips together way that says she doesn’t want to and smacks his arm lightly. Ah…she’s _perfecto_.

It’s not too much longer before they are at the other entrance of Santa Cecilia, the road to San Menas lying out in a curving line, bordered by grass and sparse trees and the occasional yucca plant. It’s wider than the one that comes into Santa Cecilia from the countryside, well traveled by feet and hooves and the wheels of carts.

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s walking alone. He stops and looks back. Imelda has stopped, clutching the knot of the shawl at her throat as she stares down the road. He can’t tell what’s going through her mind, whether she’s frightened or having second thoughts or what.

“Hey…” he says, catching her attention. “It’s going to be alright.”

She takes a deep breath that moves through her shoulders and raises her head, starting forward once more. Even having assured her, a worry picks at his mind as they approach the exit. He’s not sure what it is, but it tugs at the back of his mind. Something he really should be paying attention to. What is it? He tries to tease it out for a moment, then lets it go as they come to the corner of the last building.

 A moment like this is not the time for worry.

They continue, beyond, past the wall, he breathes in the smell of the morning, the fresh air, growing things, the sweet unexpected floral scent of Imelda by his side… and oddly… from somewhere… a rangy kind of dog smell.

“ _Buenos Dias,_ Héctor,” a woman says, and he stops and turns to find _Se_ _ñora_ Flores standing there by the wall, a basket in her hands, Luisa tied to her back and Lujosa, the dog, lying on the ground by her feet. He approaches her.

“ _Buenos Dias, Se_ _ñora_. Are you…coming to San Menas, too?” That is unexpected. She laughs a little and shakes her head, the rising light making the white flower in her hair look pinkish.

“I came to see you off,” she says. “Since you are going for a while, I heard…”

“You came to see me?” A wave of warmth goes through him. He doesn’t know why she should want to come see him, but he’s glad she did. Even if he’ll probably be back to Santa Cecilia to visit now and again, he doesn’t plan to spend much longer there.

“ _S_ _í_.” She tilts her head a little as Luisa stirs, cheek pressing softly against her shoulder, but falls back asleep, drooling a little from her small mouth. “You don’t have to go, you know,” _Se_ _ñora_ Flores says, reaching back and stroking the baby’s fine dark hair. “There’s plenty to do around the farm and the chickens will miss you.” Then she smiles and he realizes she’s teasing.

“I think I’ve had about enough of chickens,” he says. He feels a sudden bump of a dog head against his hand and sets his guitar case down so he can scratch Lujosa behind the ears. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Of course.” She tilts her head and watches him as if searching for something, then just smiles. “I’ve made you something for your journey.” She says, holding out the basket, which has warm delicious smells coming from it. “ _Buena suerte_ _…_ and _gracias_ _…_ ”

“ _De nada_ ,” he says automatically, then: “For what?” But she only pushes the basket in his hand and walks back toward Santa Cecilia, Lujosa following behind her. He blinks, then shrugs and then tries to figure out how to hold the basket and his suitcase and the guitar case at the same time. Finally he decides he can spare a few fingers from the bottom of the suitcase to hook the basket onto before picking up his guitar case and turning back the way he had come.

Imelda is far ahead of him and getting further.

“Hey, wait!” he runs to catch up to her, sending the basket swinging so hard he’s dangerously close to losing his grip on it. Imelda doesn’t even turn to look at him and as he catches up, he feels like something’s changed, but he can’t say what. She’s leaning forward a little, eyes fixed ahead, feet stirring up dust, almost as if she’s stalking instead of walking, like she’s angry about something.

“Uh… Imelda?” he says after a moment. She looks up at him and then back at the road. Did he annoy her? He’s not sure how. Running through a mental list, he can’t think of anything he might have done. Whatever it was he would like to fix if he could— but how? Would a song cheer her up? Or only annoy her further? _Ay_ _…_

“Did…something happen?” he asks, hoping to get some sort of clue.

“I’m not going to take care of you,” she says, voice blunt as a bite. “I’m not coming to cook and clean and make you a home.”

“Of course not…” he says, blinking, wondering why she would think that. “I can’t show you around if you’re cooking or cleaning.”

She stills then, seeming surprised, watching him with wider eyes. She looks cute like that, he decides. Softer. Vulnerable. He memorizes this new expression before it fades into something almost suspicious.

“Really?” she says as if testing him.

“Really,” he says, then to make her smile adds: “Though you look good in an apron.”

She gives him that lips pressed together smile which she somehow works down into a frown. He wants to kiss that frown away, or at least make it difficult for her to keep it.

“Let me carry that before you drop it.” She gestures to the basket. He lets her have it with some relief and now she has two on one arm and they are pressing together, jostling one another softly with a rustle of straw. He likes that somehow but he can’t pin down why. It might be because the niggling little worry has started up again, distracting him. He brushes it aside. Whatever is wrong will take care of itself. Right now the sun is turning the horizon gold and warming the air, which soon smells faintly of tamales, and Imelda is by his side.

o.o.o.o.o.o

The sun is high overhead and baking everything when they decide to stop. Héctor is glad he’s been down this way recently, because a few feet from the road, hidden in a little gully is an even smaller stream. It must be fed by the monsoons because it wasn’t there at all in the drier months and it’s barely there now, but enough to drink from and wash his hands and face. Héctor takes a few good gulps of the clear cold water before dumping handfuls over his head, feeling the cool fingers of wet slide through his hair and down the back of his neck.

“Ahhh… Feels good.” And it does, physically at least. Otherwise the worry is back, stronger this time, prodding him. It’s not a feeling he’s forgotten something, only that he’s failed to realize something— but what? They don’t owe any more on the room… well not much anyway that they can’t pay off next time they’re in town. He’s even gotten the guy from the _Cantina de Rio_ to part with some of the money that they’d earned from winning a bet— which will please Ernesto since he’s been trying to save up for a fancy sombrero. Not that they can really afford a fancy sombrero, or much of anything, but he always says that people like a _m_ _úsico_ who looks good and Héctor supposes he can see his point.

It’s something to do with that, he realizes. Something about—

“Mmm.” Imelda’s soft hum makes him look up. She’s scooping the water to the back of her neck, letting it run over her skin, underneath the collar of her dress in glistening trails. Her eyes are closed and her lips are softly parted and Héctor is afraid to move or even breathe for fear something is going to break. What will it taste like, he wonders, if he kisses some of that water away. A flicker of sunlight comes in through the branches of the trees and lights shining on a drop and now he keeps himself still so he won’t give into the temptation. Will she mind? Can he ask? She gives him a look out of the corner of her eye as if she can read his mind and he somehow forgets how to breathe.

His heart thuds in his ears as she leans closer, her damp fingertips cool against his jaw. If they start now, he knows, it will be a hard time stopping because what’s to interfere? They are both going to the same place. There is no one around. No one waiting. No one missing. He is perfectly ok with doing this forever. Which is great because the next moment she kisses him, lips soft, breath brushing slightly into his mouth. He leans into it, watching under his lashes as hers flutter closed. He wants to pull her over on top of him and continue this in this grassy place for as long as they can. She pulls back, just by the width of a hair it seems, watching him-- He goes to lean in again but something catches her attention and he bumps his nose against her cheek as she turns.

“Sofia! No!” Imelda says, rising. Héctor lets out a shaky breath and splashes another handful of water over his head before watching Imelda pull Sofia away from the basket _Se_ _ñora_ Flores had given him.

“She’s probably just hungry.” He was too, come to think of it. Inside the basket are five tamales wrapped in cloth and a small burlap bag filled with _carne seca_. He tosses a piece of the dried beef to Sofia who pounces on it and begins to gnaw at it with pleased sounds. He eats one himself, finds its good and eats a handful more before starting on the tamales which are like heaven. He’s halfway through his third, when he notices Imelda leaning against a tree, eating a single small mango and looking out over the stream.

“Would you like one?” he asks, holding out a fresh tamale. She gives him a slow look, as if pulled from her thoughts and says:

“No, _gracias._ ”

He frowns. He wants her to take it for some reason he can’t name. He saves two tamales just in case and finishes off the bag of _carne seca._ It will be enough to get him to San Menas and he has a little money to get something from a vendor if he and Ernesto don’t end up singing for their supper.

Imelda is looking away from him again, mango finished, hands crossed in her lap as she stares at the stream. Is she looking back toward Santa Cecilia? Or is she thinking of something else? Is her face sad? Or is she just tired? He wants to say something to her, maybe ask, but isn’t sure what he can say.

He yawns hugely instead, stretching to catch her attention once more.

“Time for a _siesta,_ ” he says, and flops to the ground, resting his head in her lap as a joke. He expects her to push him off and hopes it’s jokingly and not because she’s annoyed. Instead she smiles down at him, haloed by shadows and light. Her hand drifts over to stroke through his hair and he closes his eyes. That’s _nice_. Her lap is soft, too. The fingers of her other hand begin to drift along his jaw, smelling faintly of mango, and he takes her small hand in his own, turning his head so he can press his lips against her palm, nose brushing against the inside of her wrist. Almost without thinking he begins to hum that song again, the melody that’s haunted him beautifully with not many words to put it to.

“A feeling so close I could reach out and touch it,” she sings= breathily, sending a warm chill right through him. “I never knew I could want something so much but it’s true…” He will never get over that, as long as he lives— the words that had been in his mind, called to life in her voice, filling him with a longing he can’t place. He wants to touch it. Whatever it is. Even if he can’t understand it he wants to experience it.

He hums the feeling instead, the melody unchanging but rounding out, the rise and fall and bittersweetness of the notes. She begins to hum with him and his heart beats a little faster as he hums the counter melody to support her, listening to the tune in a new way. It needs something. Some sort of…little flare--

He absently moves his fingers over imaginary strings, trying to see what might sound right. He can’t get it in his head and dragging his guitar over means moving from the wonderful softness; so he lets it go for now, allowing the melody to drift aimlessly in his mind.

“What are the rest of the words,” Imelda asks after a moment.

“ _Ay_ … I don’t know…” It’s frustrating. “They’re slippery. Like trying to catch fish with my bare hands.” He can see them flashing in the water but as soon as he reaches in, they scatter and disappear downstream. Imelda hums thoughtfully and her nails run soft over the edge of his ear, making him shiver.

“It sounds like a love song.”

“Everything is a love song,” he says rolling his eyes. “Even Santa Cecilia. Even Juanita. But this is about more than that…it’s that… that _feeling_ that you get…Like you see something in the distance that just is-- special and you want to… grab hold of it…” He reaches up, miming the feeling, closing his hands around air and sunlight. “But I don’t know what it is…”

 He opens his hands again and there is nothing there. What can there be? Imelda shifts, leaning forward and captures his hands with hers, small palms flush against his, twining their fingers together.

“You’ll find it. I know you will,” she says, bringing his hands to her lips and kissing his fingers, his knuckles. Her lips are soft and her breath is warm and it feels somehow like a blessing.

“Imelda…” He says her name just to say it, feel the sound of it in his mouth, full at first and then trailing off lightly at the end, teasing, hinting at more. He wants more. He wants to pursue it all the way to the end. To take his music along with it. To learn how to play this dance and the words that follow. There’s something more, an idea in his head as strong as a pulse.

He tugs her hands back down to him, kissing them as she had, watching the warm smile start with her eyes than travel to the corners of her mouth. If her anger is storm clouds, her smiles are the tiny flowers that the rain brings.

“When I do,…” Because it is different. It’s not like ‘Juanita’ or ‘Santa Cecilia’. It’s… like something new, something important to him, for him, not to make someone laugh or give them a sense of pride, but some part of him set loose in the music, set free in the air. He watches her, the question settling on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know why it feels like such a fragile one, as if it could be crushed as easily as an egg. He watches her eyes and kisses her hands again.

“…Will you sing it with me?” he murmurs. Her cheeks darken slightly, as if she understands somehow how important this is, and she nods, murmuring:

“ _S_ _í_.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

Though they’d managed to get a ride at least part of the way by a passing farmer, it is still early evening by the time they arrive in San Menas. Héctor smiles at the bustling town, even more crowded now that a train sits on the platform, spilling out people like seeds from a torn bag to one of the bars or cantinas that hug the railroad or elsewhere in town. The streets are packed, vendors out in full force, and he can faintly hear a guitar being played somewhere; probably from one of the cantinas or the _Fuente de Gallo_ where down on their luck _m_ _úsicos_ gather. He and Ernesto had played there more than once themselves.

Imelda bumps against his arm, wearing a closed off expression he used to think was anger, and now wonders if it’s because she’s worried about something or maybe overwhelmed. He can understand. San Menas on a slow day feels like Santa Cecilia on an active one, and that’s without a train coming in. He doesn’t have an arm free to put it around her shoulders, so he just bumps back lightly in sympathy.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says and the unnamed worry that’s been dogging him the whole time pulls at his mind again. He shakes it away irritably. What is there to worry about? They’ve made it here safely and hadn’t even run into any trouble on the road. He must just still be tired. He starts them down to he and Ernesto’s favorite cantina, glancing at some of the rising buildings on the other side of the tracks, that are still just skeletons of wood. He wants to show off the building Ruiz has promised, say, this is the place they are going to play-- where all their hard work will have paid off… Hopefully….

For the moment he’ll just sit on it and hopefully Ruiz will--

_There is absolutely nowhere for Imelda to stay_.

The realization hits him so suddenly he freezes in panic. Oh, she _could_ stay in the rat infested shack that he and Ernesto had managed to cobble together some money for that’s nothing but two mats and a sorry excuse for a floor. Not to mention the lavatory shared with fifty other rough men and poor _m_ _úsicos,_ where women were only rarely around and even then probably not one Imelda wanted to be mistaken for.

_Ay Dios mio_ what is he going to do about this? He’d asked Imelda to come and couldn’t just turn around and say that he didn’t have anywhere for her to sleep. There were _posadas_ of course, but he couldn’t ask her to spend her money there if she even had any. And what if she decides to go back to Santa Cecilia? Or even further away…?

“Héctor?” Her voice breaks into his thoughts and he forces a grin.

“ _Nada._ ” There is one thing he can try, a long shot but it might be the only one that he has. “This way.” He juggles his suitcase into a more secure grip under his arm and begins to lead her through the crowd. At some point there is a tug on his sleeve and he looks to realize she’s holding onto it. A kind of warm strength fills him at that, and suddenly he feels ready to take on anything.

“It will be fine,” he says, mostly to himself. “ _No hay pedo._ _”_

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

The _Posada de_ _Última_ is not, Héctor reflects, the best place to be. It’s a squat building with a second floor thrown on top almost as an afterthought that seems to have a list to it, but he tries not to think about that too much. The paint has flaked off some places and one of the shutters is hanging off. Beyond it is the beginning of the bad part of town, the crumbling houses and the shanties that are in even worse repair, clinging to the side of San Menas like a desperate tick. At least Santa Cecilia cared for its own-- but maybe San Menas had too much own to care for.

“What is this place?” Imelda asks as they come closer.

“Home,” Héctor says with a grin. “Foor a little while.” He’s got to find someplace better for her than this. How he’s going to _afford_ it is something else altogether. As they draw closer a scrawny _m_ _úsico_ with one leg leans against the open doorway and begins to play a small, badly out of tune, guitar; trying to coax passersby inside. Héctor tosses him a few _centavos_ out of sympathy and then ducks inside, immediately relaxing a little as the first phase of the plan is complete. That and the common room of the _Última_ reminds him of the _Cantina del Rio_. It’s full of tables and people and the smell of cigar smoke and these days more faces he knows. It also has good, cheap food and tequila that will strip paint from the walls-- so all in all a good place to come after a long day.

He finds Imelda a small table out of the way of the more unruly of the card players and sets his suitcase on it.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. She doesn’t seem to want to let go of his sleeve at first, though her expression is more solemn than afraid. Does she suspect somehow? No, she can’t know… can she? Anyway, it’s not a lie he’s telling her exactly, he just doesn’t want her to worry and he definitely doesn’t want her to see the shanty. He’s just trying to think of what he can say to convince her, when she finally lets go and sits, holding her basket on her lap. He gives her a little wave to try and reassure her and then goes to find _Se_ _ñor_ Corrido.

Héctor doesn’t see him right away but does find an old gambler sitting at the bar that he knows sort of well. He’s played a few hands with the guy and has never lost too much money, and more importantly in this situation, hasn’t won any.

“Hey, _hombre,_ ” Héctor says, sliding up next to him. “You seen Corrido around?”

“Try out back,” the old gambler says. “Also, your _amigo_ was looking for you. He said you’d know where to find him.”

“ _Gracias,_ _”_ Héctor says, leaving the man enough for at least another beer, just to be polite. Inwardly he groans as he makes his way out back. Ernesto is another thing he’d forgotten about. He’d have to tell him Imelda is here. Or would he? For a moment he stopped as a wild plan went through his brain of keeping them separated somehow-- but immediately knew that wasn’t going to work. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Ernesto had a problem with Imelda, or at least none that Héctor knew of. He just doesn’t like Héctor getting…distracted.

And she is…distracting...

Even now he wants to turn around and take her with him to see Corrido, just to hold her hand. It’s amazing how such a simple thing makes him feel-- grounded? Buut then she’d really know what a bad idea this was, so he shakes the worries out and goes through the kitchens to the back.

Corrido is standing there monitoring some barrels of goods being pulled off a cart, ticking off things on a piece of paper. He is a tall man with bristly hair and a bristly mustache and a bristly personality. Still he’d given Héctor and Ernesto one of their first gigs and had even let them sleep on the floor in the common room for a few days before they’d found the shanty. He was a good guy all told.

“ _Holaa_ , Corrido! _Que milagro!_ It’s been a while, eh?”

“It’s been two weeks,” Corrido says, not even looking up from his checklist. “Also, no.”

“No?”

“To whatever you’re going to ask. You still owe me for that last round of drinks.”

Oh... Right. That…

“ _S_ _í. Sí_. And I’ll pay you back for that, I promise. It’ll just take a little while.” He angles himself to get into Corrido’s line of sight so the man can see how much he means this, then presses his hands together like a little prayer. “Buuuut I need a room.”

“No.”

“Fooor maybe a week.”

“No.”

“Annd maybe a meal a day?”

Corrido looks up from the checklist then, but his expression …. Héctor tries to keep his hopes up anyway.

“Look, _chamaco_ , I’m a businessman not a nursemaid. If you’re finding it so hard, go back to Santa Cecilia.”

“It’s not for me,” Héctor says and Corrido rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t believe him. “No, it’s not. It’s for an _amiga_ of mine just coming here…” Though _amiga_ isn’t really the right word. What word is it for someone he wants to spend time with and also kiss? Maybe _amorga._ That thought makes him grin a little, but he quickly straightens out his face as Corrido raises an eyebrow at him.

“A streetwalker?” Corrido says and Héctor has to resist the sudden panicked impulse to clap a hand over the man’s mouth. He’s glad Imelda isn’t here to hear that, because he doesn’t even want to know what her reaction would be.

“She’s from Santa Cecilia!” Héctor says quickly. “And she works in the padre’s kitchen!” Though… probably won’t anymore…but he’ll think about that later.

“Well what’s she doing here?” Corrido asks. Héctor gives a little open palmed shrug. He can answer but it’s a complicated answer and he’s not even sure entirely what Imelda wants to do except for see things and not take care of him.

“All I’m asking for is a week and a meal a day,” Héctor says.

“ _Ay_ _…_ ” Corrido rubs his forehead.

“And in return I’ll busk for you. _Gratis._ Every night for the entire week. I promise.”

“Every night for two weeks,” Corrido says, glowering at him. “She’ll need a private room unless you want her sharing with the _hombres_ and that’s not cheap for me. You’re lucky you bring in so much otherwise I’d toss both of you out right now.”

“ _Gracias_ _…_ ” Héctor says with a wince and promises himself that he’ll pay Corrido back twice over if and when he and Ernesto make it big, or even above scraping _centavos_ out of the dirt.

“You’d better _gracias,_ ” Corrido grumbles. “And be grateful you’re not on your knees doing it.” He fishes a ring of keys from his pocket and pulls one off to hand to Héctor. “Room thirteen. I’ll tell Miranda about the guest. And, Rivera--” he adds before Héctor can get too far. “You start tonight --and one hiccup or missed performance and the deal is off.”

“ _S_ _í_! I won’t let you down!”

Corrido snorts as if he doesn’t believe him. That’s fine. Héctor will show him how reliable he is. But first, Imelda. Coming back into the common room, he’s surprised to find her where he left her. She is sitting at the table, drawing a loose bit of string for the kitten to chase. As he makes his way toward her he catches sight of a man approaching her from across the room, a smirk on his face. She looks up at the man and Héctor has to stifle a laugh as something in her gaze makes the man swerve and almost stumble to the bar. How beautifully terrifying she can be. Then she pins that cold gaze on him and he has half a mind to swerve as well. He smiles but she doesn’t return it and he can’t tell if she’s angry, upset, or just tired.

“Ah… I got you a room,” he says, managing to keep the smile somehow. She nods and scoops the kitten against her chest, picking up her basket once more. He wants to hold her hand up the stairs but has to gather his suitcase carefully under his arm again before leading the way. Against any sort of order, room thirteen is at the very top, a slanted little attic room that is stifling with heat, even this late in the evening, and a single, narrow, lumpy bed. At least it looks clean. He can see the sigh run through Imelda’s shoulders and watches her cross the room and push open the window to let the cooler evening air curl in.

“ _Lo siento,_ _”_ he murmurs, knowing it’s not …great. Imelda turns to him and shakes her head.

“Where will you stay?”

“Just…down the hall,” he says. Which…is not a lie. Exactly. Well it mostly is, but it’s a good lie so it’s okay… isn’t it? He sets his suitcase on the bed for now just to free up his arm and watches her untie her soft red shawl and spread it open on the bed. There’s something…interesting about this. Interesting in a very dangerous way. To see her clothes laid out like that, dresses but the hint of something else tucked underneath. A hairbrush. Some little jars he can’t begin to guess what they hold. The scent of her begins to lift into the room and he feels just a little dizzy from all of it, but in a way that makes him want to play something fun, something to dance to.

Speaking of playing though… He remembers with a sudden burst of guilt.

“I…. Have to go see Ernesto.”

She raises her head and looks at him. He can’t read her expression. But there is something in her stillness that he gets the feeling she’s not happy with it. He doesn’t want to leave her either. He wants to stay with her. To rest on that soft bed and talk to her. Hold her hand. Kiss her. But he can’t keep Ernesto waiting either.

“I’ll just be a little while,” he says. “And then I’ll be right back here with you. If you want.” Does she want? He’s not entirely sure of that either. Sometimes being with her is like walking on the thin edge of a cliff.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says, putting her things into one of the drawers. He watches her hands fold and fuss with and caress the lines of fabric. “I don’t need you.”

That stings. He knows it and always has but it stings unexpectedly anyway. He rubs his arm, wondering suddenly what he’s doing here, what he was thinking about bringing her with him. San Menas was a lot different than Santa Cecilia. He had a lot less time for one thing and how was he even… going to…

 His thoughts hush out of him like a tide as she crosses the room to him. Her hand rests against his chest, drawing all the heat to it and she leans up and kisses him. His hand moves almost by itself to rest against the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin underneath the soft fabric. Every time. Every time it is like this. He hoped it never ended.

“Go,” she murmurs kissing him again. “And come back.”

He makes a sound against her mouth because it’s against his again and it’s all he can do not to pull her closer so she’s flush up against him all soft and small. He could stay here forever, he knows, in this hot little room with just her. Especially as her hands slide up around the back of his neck, sending warm chills all through him as she plays with his hair. Her nail scrapes a spot and he can’t stop the shudder that goes all the way up from his toes. Hee is not going to think about that. Is going to stuff that sensation and all the other _fantas_ _ías_ to the back of his mind before they can become dangerous.

“Is something wrong?” she asks in a low voice like a purr, a smile shadowing the corners of her mouth as if she knows. He feels hunted and wonders faintly if mice are ever grateful to cats for eating them. He swallows and suddenly it feels like a moment, like balancing on a thin cord where he can step off one way or the other. And one of those ways…

He pulls in a breath — and then lifts his head as church bells chime the hour in the distance.

“I’d better get going,” he says, choosing the way where his best friend is waiting for him. She lets him go, moving away and he doesn’t like the sudden cooler air between them. He tries to think of something he can say to make this easier, but then she gives him a little smile over her shoulder and the knot inside him unwinds.

“See you soon,” he murmurs, a promise to them both, and heads out the door.

o.o.o.o.o.o

By the time Héctor pushes into the doors of the _Tresoro,_ it is almost full dark and he’s hot and tired and annoyed. The cantina is bursting with life as it would be this time of the evening and normally he would take comfort in it. If this were any other day he would sink happily beside Ernesto who is, of course, standing at the bar, laughing it up with some _hombres_ that look like they have pesos to their names. He would steal from Ernesto’s tequila and order the cheapest food this place had, which still stung the lining of their pockets, and let the man talk and enchant everyone who sat near them. Tonight, though, Imelda sat in the back of his mind, waiting still and dark by the window.

 It also doesn’t help that they have so little money to begin with, and Ernesto seemed content to blow it all on these guys because they laugh at his jokes. Like he’s doing right now, leaning against the bar, happily chatting to the other guys sitting there, looking perfect as usual despite the fact that he probably woke up in the shanty. A bubble of laughter rises from whatever it was he says and Ernesto smiles, showing even white teeth. He’s really in his element here, Héctor thinks fondly as he makes his way toward the bar. Ernesto is confident. Friendly. The men at the bar are hanging on every word. It’s nice to see.

Even more nice to see is the barman sliding a plate of piping hot empanadas near a man sitting close to Ernesto. Héctor’s stomach gurgles. He hasn’t eaten since the road and it smells delicious. He’s got a few _centavos_ left. Maybe if he slips the guy one or two he can take one of those empanadas off his hands. Héctor approaches the bar, waving happily to some guys he kind of knows sitting in one of the smoky corners.

“And then I said,” Ernesto is saying. “That’s nice for you but I’d rather the horse!”

The men laughed again and Héctor grins, knowing the first part of that joke all too well.

“The horse wouldn’t have you,” Héctor calls, feeling a flush a pleasure at getting a laugh himself and Ernesto’s as well, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes until he spots him and his whole face lights up.

“There you are!” he says. “Excuse me, _amigos,_ I need to give someone a talking to.”

“Talking to?” Héctor says with a laugh, trying to at least get within reaching distance of the empanadas. Ernesto wraps an arm around him and steers him away. It’s practically a hug and Héctor can tell he is worried so sighs and lets it go.

“You’re late,” Ernesto says, still playful but there is a crease between his eyebrows. “I thought something happened to you.”

Only the most beautiful woman in the world, Héctor thinks, but then decides that’s probably not the best to lead in with.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be here,” Héctor says instead, letting himself be sat at a table, setting his guitar case on the floor. “We can’t afford this place. And you’d better not have started another tab.”

“Don’t worry, _amigo,_ don’t worry. I’ve got it handled. Anyway, I’ve told you, if we want to make an impression we have to go where the impressive people are.”

“Sure sure.” He’s told him. And in a lot of ways, Héctor can see his point. But it seems to him that they’re running out of money faster than they can make it and the people that they’re starting to owe throughout the city is making him itch.

“And tonight,” Ernesto continues, leaning in and pitching his voice low. Héctor can smell chili on his breath. “Someone _muy impresionante_ is coming… Here…” He presses a finger against the table. He leans even closer, watching him with an eager grin. “ _Don_ Sanchez.”

“The one that owns the _ocho_ mobile?! Do you think he’ll bring it?” He should go back and get Imelda. She’d love to see it. And maybe they could even watch it move! He isn’t sure if he believes it can actually run without horses or even being pushed but he’s willing to see if it’s true. Ernesto is giving him a pained look.

“Who cares about that? Didn’t you hear me? He’s coming here. Tonight. We have a golden opportunity to play for him. And Ruiz says--”

“Play for him?” Héctor holds up his hands. “No, no, no. Tonight is not a good time.”

“What?” Ernesto looks shocked for a moment, then his face smooths into a smile. “Come, _amigo,_ surely you don’t mean that.”

“I do mean that,” Héctor says, gesturing to himself. “I _just_ got into town. I can barely play for myself let alone some _mucho rico_ who’s not even here for that…”

“Oh, come on, _compadre_ , anyone would be here for music!” Ernesto says with an expansive gesture. Héctor can’t really deny that. He rubs a hand over his forehead, feeling a headache start to prick at his temples to match the tired grit in his eyes.

“ _S_ _í_ , fair point, but--”

“Listen….” He grips Héctor’s shoulders warmly, fondly. “Ruiz _says_ Sanchez is looking for _m_ _úsicos_ to play at his _hija_ _’s_ wedding at the end of the month,” Ernesto says in a low voice. “And if we can get his attention, if we can get the _opportunity_ , think of how far we can go! Of how far we can push the venture!” He gives Héctor a gentle shake as if to wake him up to this idea. “We _have_ to do this. We _must_ do this.” His eyes warm and the ridge between his brow deepens. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Héctor wants to say a million things. About how this is not the end of the world if they don’t play for this guy. How much he distrusts Ruiz. How Imelda is waiting for him and it’s already so late… he can’t even be sure how she feels about him the best of times, let alone when he said he’d be back soon and the windows are already dark with night. How he still has to busk for Corrido every night for a week and who isn’t going to be happy if he gets back so late. How he’s tired and hungry and just wants to rest before trying to impress anyone.

But he can’t say no.

Not when Ernesto needs him so much. Not when they’re both still as poor as grit.

“Fine…” He digs the sachet of money from inside his shirt and tosses it on the table. “But get me something to eat before I die.”

“Ha!” Ernesto’s sudden happiness is catching and Héctor finds himself grinning as well. “I knew I could count on you, Teto! I’ll get you something even better! My treat!” It’s really something Héctor is half paying for, but it is coming out of Ernesto’s flashy sombrero fund so that’s something at least. Héctor shakes his head as he pulls the guitar from its case and sets it on his lap, tuning it absently, loving the feel of the cords of nylon against his fingers, the way the deep rose wood shines in the light.

He strums a few chords then starts to softly play that tune. That tune with so few lyrics that needs to be pinned down with words. The lack of it is an ache, like a longing for something he can’t even name but that he’s close to. So close he could reach out and touch it if he knew what he was reaching for. He closes his eyes, trying to find it in the darkness.

“Now don’t give the game away, _amigo_ ,” Ernesto says with an uncertain laugh and Héctor looks up to find him with a bottle of middle of the road tequila and two shot glasses. Not an _empanada_ in sight and no return of pesos either. Héctor’s about to complain but watches as the older man’s hand shakes as he pours the tequila and lets it go. It’s not important. He can eat later.

“To success…” Ernesto lifts the glass. “Salud.”

“Salud,” Héctor echoes, knocking it back. It burns like fire in his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes and then barrels its way to his stomach, spreading like the warm hand of a friend to his gut. It’s almost as good as a warm slender hand on his chest or drifting lazily through his hair. He sighs a little, refilling his glass. Does Imelda like tequila, he wonders? He knows she likes wine. He remembers her drinking it from the bottle with him on that sun drenched afternoon, the way her throat moved as she drank, the way her cheeks flushed, and her mouth tasted so sweet. He needs to learn that ultimate kiss technique _pronto_. There has to be _some_ reason why women like it and he really likes it too, feeling the edges of her teeth and her tongue against his. He takes another shot before his mind wanders further and makes things really awkward.

  _Ay_ , but he wants to see her.

Ernesto slaps a hand lightly on the table and Héctor startles, realizing that Ernesto’s been talking and he hasn’t been listening.

“Say again?” he says with a sheepish smile. Ernesto rolls his eyes and leans in.

“I am trying to change our lives. It would help if you would pay attention.”

“It’s been a long day…” Héctor says, but straightens anyway, trying to keep his focus on his friend.

 “I’ve been thinking about this…” Ernesto says. “So listen up. You begin playing just before Sanchez comes in. Something gentle, but you know, playful… To set a little….atmosphere. Show your skill. I go over to him and ask if he wants some music… And if he says yes….” Ernesto takes another shot, as if this too worries him. “Then you start with Juanita just to liven things up, then I’ll sing _La Cigarra_ and play.”

Just to show off, Héctor thinks without heat. _La Cigarra_ is one of the few songs Ernesto knows how to play himself and just by that, Héctor can guess the rest of the list. “Then _La Llorona,_ then Santa Cecilia only with San Menas…”

“You can’t just replace the city name and expect it to be the same song,” Héctor grumbles. “Santa Cecilia is about Santa Cecilia. About the mariachi plaza…”

“Or the _Fuente de Gallo_ _…”_

“That’s not… That’s not even the same kind of place!” The mariachi plaza brims with life while the _m_ _úsicos_ around the _Fuente de Gallo_ were mostly thin and desperate. It wasn’t where music breathed in the air and filled the soul, it was where it came to struggle to rise like a bird trapped under a net.

“It doesn’t matter what kind of place it is,” Ernesto says. “Don Sanchez isn’t going to care. It will make _us_ seem local which is _muy importante_. We’re not just some no accounts from Santa Cecilia! We’re _m_ _úsicos_ from San Menas!”

Well _he_ cares. It completely takes away the meaning of the song. But he also knows why, since it’s another song Ernesto can play.

“Do you even really need me here at all?” Héctor asks flatly. On second thought, he thinks a moment later, it might not be such a bad idea. He can cut out early and not have to hear his song butchered and go back to see Imelda… But he’ll still need his guitar to busk … They need to get another one of those, which will be near to impossible if they keep leaking pesos. Maybe he can convince Ernesto to push his sombrero to later.

“Of course I need you,” Ernesto says, refilling his glass. “You can play and remind him why he wants us while I negotiate.”

“As long as it doesn’t take too long…” Héctor says, resigned to this now, looking at the clear liquid in the shot glass and how it catches the light. Ernesto laughs with a hint of his real self in there, which catches Héctor off guard and tugs at a corner of his heart.

“Why? Do you have somewhere to be?”

Now is the time to tell him of Imelda, he knows. And Corrido. And the other side of his life which is now crashing into this side of his life. But Ernesto is leaning his elbow on the table, that curl of hair falling into his eyes and smiling in the fond sort of way that’s better and warmer than any tequila. They have a friendship. A history. Something that reaches warmly in both directions.

“Nowhere at all,” he lies, hoping he doesn’t pay for it later. “Salud.” And he knocks back the drink.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

The stars are spiraling, or maybe that’s him. The night is hot and steamy and he’s sweating everywhere and his shirt is already open to let whatever the breeze in. Ernesto’s arm is heavy on his shoulders and he hangs on the back of his friend’s shirt. He is in a wonderful mood. A _fantastico_ mood! There is nothing that can go wrong on a night like tonight!

“We did it, _amigo,_ didn’t we?” Héctor says, patting Ernesto’s chest with his free hand. “Did….did you see him laugh at Juanita? Thought his eyes were gonna bug right out of his head… face as red as a chili. Did you see it? Eh?”

Ernesto laughs.

“I was right there, _muchacho._ You did good.”

“No! No, no, no, no…no….” He tries to move to stand in front of Ernesto but half trips and grabs onto his lapel. “Wee did good. Your voice swept them away! Everyone was falling off the…the seaty thingys trying to get a better listen at you.”

“Be careful Héctor or you’ll rip my _chaqueta._ ”

“Songs are worth a ripped _chaqueta!_ This music. This _music_. Your voice… _Ay_. When…even if… even if _muchacho_ _… muchacho_ San Cecilia was a mistake. It was awful _muchacho._ I wanted to die. My fingers wouldn’t have played it. They would have rebelled… And you…” he waves a finger at him. “Played it wrong.”

“You wrote it wrong,” Ernesto says, pushing his finger away. “Anyway he liked it.”

“Ahhh so he did…” So maybe it was good. Ah, who cared? He needs to celebrate! To celebrate the victory! The way Señor….Don…Don Sanchez had…put his arms around them and said… said his daughter wouldn’t be more pleased if Saint Gabriel came down and lead the choir invisible. That was somewhere around the third bottle of…tequila… and he had…he thought he had…

“Ernesto…Hey… Hey Nesto…” He shook him a bit by the shoulders, making the older man curse and hang onto him a bit harder.

“Next time I’m leaving you under the table,” Ernesto grunts.

“No listen where is the tequila…the one…the one I had…”

“You drank it three streets back.” Ernesto peels his hands off and continues to half drag him down the street.

“I did? But that’s sad! We need to …to drink to it! Celebrate a toast! We showed the boss our …our stuff! We have a gig! A gig for a reall _ruco mico_!” Ah, it’s too much! He can’t hold it in! The feeling must come out of his chest.

“Héctor, no,” Ernesto says as Héctor sucks in a breath, and staggers back, wind and _grito_ knocked right out of him as Ernesto claps a hand over his mouth.

“None of that,” he mutters. “You’re going to wake up half the city and they throw things around here.”

Then Héctor will catch them, he wants to say. He will catch them and throw them back because he is a wild _m_ _úsico_ full of passion and with…with just great aim. He drags Ernesto’s hand from his face and is about to explain why _gritoing_ is something he _really_ needs to do right now, but a burp comes out instead, making Ernesto reel back.

“I am leaving you there next time,” he mutters again, picking up the pace so Héctor is forced to stagger along. “Under a table, in a ditch, why did you have to drink so much, eh?”

“It was a _fiesta_!” he says, wondering how Ernesto can’t understand. “ _Amigo_ _….amigo_ that’s…we _have_ to drink at a _fiesta_.”

“It wasn’t a _fiesta_ ,” Ernesto says, sounding annoyed. Héctor blinks. Wasn’t it?

“It….should’ve been…” Because he had had so very much tequila.

He squints down the streets. It is dark and too dark almost to see except the moon is out and everything is a pale white. They are close to the shanty and the thin mat and it is too good a night to go there. He has no choice because he can’t go anywhere without Ernesto. He will have to roll otherwise. He sighs and tips his head back and hums. Ernesto groans.

“Héctor, _please_.”

“Yesterday I crieed cuz I couldn’t see you Lloronaaaa and todayyy I crieed to see youuuu . Yesterdayyyy—” he stops to think. “It is yesterday isn’t it?” They are at the _posada_ now and he stares at it. He had to do something _muy importante_ there. Something he was missing. But more importantly… He pulls to a stop, trying to tug out of Ernesto’s grip. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait. I need to see her. I’ve gotta see her…”

“Who?” Ernesto says impatiently.

“Llorona….” he says, finally slipping free and staggering to the _posada_. Ernesto sighs and grabs the back of his collar.

“Héctor please. Your Llorona isn’t even here.”

“ _What_?” Where is she? Where did she go? He twists free again, nearly pitching straight into the wall and runs around the _posada_ to where the attic room is. The window is dark! Had she gone away? “Llorona!” he calls, then cupping his hands around his mouth bellows: “ _Llorona!_ ”

“ _Callete!_ ” Ernesto snaps, grabbing him by the sleeve and starting to tug him back. No, he can’t go back yet. Not until he knows. Ernesto keeps wanting to pull him away. There is only one thing to do. He picks up a pebble and throws it, hard as he can, toward that single dark window. There is the tinkling pling of breaking glass.

“Héctor!”

Ernesto is angry, but he doesn’t care. He’s more concerned with the yellow heartbeat of light that glows to life in the room and a moment later the window is pushed open.

“Who—?” Imelda snaps and his heart soars. She staayyyed. “What are you doing, _bandito!_ ” she says, sounding furious.

“ _Lo siento, Se_ _ñorita_ ,” Ernesto starts.

“ _Buenos Noches,_ Imelda!” Héctor calls to her. “You should’ve seen us!”

“Imelda?” Ernesto mutters.

“We ….we sang until…until everyone was singing along and then! And then we got it!”

“Got what?” Imelda asks impatiently.

“You mean the padre’s cook?” Ernesto snaps.

“But I miss you!” It’s really distracting to talk to her with Ernesto in his ear, so he talks louder. “You’re beautiful!”

“ _Callete!_ ” she growls down at him.

“I can’t _callete!_ _”_ He moves away from Ernesto so the man will stop pushing and pinching at him. “Being with you I can’t help but sing! You are the blood in my veins and the moon in my sky and when I kiss you— WAAHAHIIII!” Ahhh that feels amazing. “You are amazing! Imelda! _Grito_ with me!” And he lifts his head, spinning in a dance, howling at the half moon and the moon in his sky.

“ _H_ _éctor!”_ they both seem to say at once.

“Shut up!” someone else snaps as a window opens.

“Go to bed, you stupid drunk!” another voice. Something goes zinging by his face and he tries to get out of its way. His feet tangle and he pinwheels his arms as he falls backward, feeling a spark of pain as his head hits the brick wall and then nothing.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

He is dying, or at least it feels like it. He wishes he would hurry up and finish the process. His head feels like it’s being split apart, back to front. He’s had odd, disturbing dreams; of Imelda shouting, a door slamming, Ernesto turning into a giant chicken and pecking at him. He feels raw around the edges and hungry, though there seems to be the thin taste of soup in his mouth. What….what had happened? He tries to piece it together as he drifts back toward awareness without wanting to. There is something soft and warm purring on his throat, and when he cracks open one eye — an action he instantly regrets as the morning sunlight seems to stab him through the brain— notes that he is definitely not in the shanty. There seems to be something cool and damp around his head, but he doesn't have the strength or the desire right now to reach up and find out what it is. None of this can tell him what just happened.

They had been at the _Tresoro,_ waiting for Don Sanchez, that he remembers. He had been drinking to keep his energy up. At some point in the evening he remembers the Don arriving and Ernesto greeting him almost like an old friend, but that is how Ernesto approached everyone as if he was delighted to see them. Héctor thinks it’s so that they’ll be happy to see him too, without really knowing why. After that is a blur. So he is probably hungover— only it feels a bit more than that. He wonders if they got the gig or not.

A door opens and closes nearby. He hears the click of a tongue and the soft furry warmth is lifted from his neck.

“He’s got enough problems, _gatito_ , try not to make it worse,” Imelda murmurs and he smiles shifting his head toward her to get the faint floral scent. It also smells like spices and his stomach grumbles. He can hear her breathe a laugh. Whatever is on his head is taken off, there is the sound of water and then it’s replaced which feels good. He must be in Imelda’s room. She must be taking care of him.

‘Good morning, Imelda,’ he wants to say teasingly. Maybe even Llorona but she hates it when he calls her that. He tries for the less annoying option only it comes out as a grating. “Gmfn mlda.”

“You’re awake…” she says and there is something in her voice that makes him sad. “Can you sit up?” He’s not sure he can. He tries and is surprised to feel her hand on his back as she helps him get upright and lean against the wall. It’s not so bad. Her fingers find his hair and he smiles until they touch on a stinging lump that sends a shard of pain through his head again.

“Ah!”

“Does that hurt?”

“ _S_ _í._ ”

“Good.” Her voice is hard — and he winces. Had he done something to upset…

_Ay_ _…_

He was supposed to have come back to see her and—

“ _Ay Dios mio_! Corrido!” He tries to scramble to his feet but her hands on his shoulders set him back down.

“I’ve already spoken to _Se_ _ñor_ Corrido,” Imelda says, her voice somehow even colder. He can’t imagine how that must have gone. It must have gone okay because Imelda had not been kicked out but on the other hand that she’s so angry does not bode well.

“ _Lo siento_ , Imelda,” he murmurs. She snorts and says:

“I’ll bring you food. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The door closes again hard before he can even answer. He winces at the sound and sighs. Damnit… That had been _mucho estupido_. The kitten comes up to sit on the edge of the blanket, watching him and blinking slowly. He gives her a little smile.

“I’m pretty bad at this, aren’t I?”

Sofia licks her little black paw and starts to clean one of her silver ears. Héctor takes that as a yes. He threads his fingers together and stares at them, wondering what he should do. If there’s anything that can be done. Maybe he should leave before she gets back so she won’t have to look after him, but even just pushing away from the wall makes him dizzy so he thunks his head back against it and hisses in the sudden pain, the kitten flying to the other side of the room.

“It’s okay, _gatito_ ,” he says, gingerly touching the spot and winces again. “I’m mad at me, not you.”

He hears footsteps on the landing and his heart lowers a little. It goes even further as Imelda comes in and he notices she’s wearing an apron.

“What’s that for?” he says, even though he knows the answer. She sighs, handing him a bowl of corn soup, rounds of jalapenos floating in it.

“Eat, Héctor.”

He takes the bowl but doesn’t eat right away, even as the smell makes his stomach grumble. It hasn’t even been two days and already everything feels wrecked. Must be a new record.

“ _Lo siento._ _”_

“ _Eat_ ,” she says, rising and brushing the wrinkles from her skirts. “I have things to do.”

“You work in the kitchens?” he murmurs, taking a sip. It tastes delicious and a part of him wants to gulp it all down. He runs his thumb along the edge of the bowl.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she says, and he winces a little. “And cleaning. In exchange for room and a little wage.”

“I should have returned earlier.”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she says, which stings. “But I can always count on you to be late.” Which stings even more. He rests the bowl on his drawn-up knees, his stomach feeling sour. He shouldn’t’ve drank so much. Not that it would have mattered maybe because by the time they’d gotten out it might have been too late to begin with. But how could he have avoided it?

“Eat already, will you?” she says.

“I’m not hungry…”

“What?” she sounds surprised. In a moment she’s over to his side and she removes the cloth around his head, pressing her forehead to his. “You don’t have a fever,” she says. “Are you dizzy? Are you bleeding?” Her fingers check through his hair once more. He feels a surge of affection and he has to hold back a laugh as much as he can. She’s worried about him. She cares about him. He knows it and yet….He touches her cheek with his fingertips.

“No… No, it’s not that I… I just feel bad in here…” he presses a hand over his heart. She narrows her eyes.

“So you should,” she says, then gives his shoulder a push. “Why did you _lie_ to me, Héctor? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I barely knew what to do when Corrido came in. I thought he was a thief and nearly broke my _chancla_ over his head!”

A laugh escapes his nose before he can stop it and she glares at him.

“Do you think it’s funny?”

“Eh…well… I mean… It is a little…”

Her jaw tightens and her chin lifts. He can see a glassiness come to her eyes. _Ay_. She’s really upset. It must have been humiliating or it might have scared her. It’s hard to imagine her being terrified of anything but she is human just like anyone.

“Don’t you dare tease me,” she says, voice shaking just a little. “Why didn’t you tell me.”

Why? Well he had wanted to take care of her… But…

“I just…We live in a shanty… Me and Ernesto. Not far from here. It’s… _no bueno_. Absolutely _no bueno_. I couldn’t…. I didn’t want to take you there… for you to see what it’s like…” He shakes his head, watching her eyes which are now on him. “I wanted to show you the good side of San Menas. Not the trash heap out back. I wanted you to have nothing to worry about for once…” He sighs and looks down at the bowl once more. “I was going to come back. To busk for Corrido. To give you a room for a while, I swear it.”

Her fingers clench together on her lap, her head turned away. He wants to take one of those hands in his, kiss her palm, try to reassure her but…

“Don’t ever do that again,” she says, voice flat, rising and brushing off her skirt. “I can and will take care of myself. _Mi entiendes_?”

“ _S_ _í._ ” It feels a bit like talking to Padre de Léon and would have been funny if he didn’t feel terrible about it. She can take care of herself and she will and he knows she’s strong…. But…

“I just wish I could help…” he raises a shoulder in a shrug, risking a glance at her. She’s standing with her hand on the doorknob, watching him, mouth a flat line, dark eyes unreadable. A breath moves through her and she looks away.

“When you’re here, Teto. That’s enough.” Her gaze flicks back to him, eyes hard. “Eat.” He takes another sip, lowering the spoon after she slips out and the door shuts behind her. When he’s here, that’s enough. But it doesn’t _feel_ like enough.

“Ah well, I’ll figure it out,” he tells Sofia who has crept back out into the light. He takes another sip because it’s good and he’s hungry. If him being here is good enough, he’ll just have to find more time to be here. That shouldn’t be hard.

He hopes….

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Héctor is exhausted. He drags himself beside Ernesto through shanty town, muttering greetings to the afternoon crowd that is starting to peel themselves awake cursed with hangovers or hunger or other things. It’s been a week since he brought Imelda here, and he’s only seen her for a moment or two every day. If he’s not busy playing for half the cantinas or bars or _posadas_ or restaurants in town, she is busy working hard for Corrido. Also it doesn’t help that they seem to have more gigs than ever before. Where Ernesto is getting all of them he has no idea and he’s too tired to ask.

“We have _got_ to take a break, _amigo_ ,” he says, stretching and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m starting to understand what a tent peg feels like.”

“I know, _muchacho_ ,” Ernesto’s voice is rust and he covers his mouth to hide the jaw cracking yawn. “But think of the payoff!”

“ _S_ _í, sí_.” He’s tired of hearing about the payoff. Still, maybe Ernesto’s right. If Ruiz is honest then they’ll have a place to rest for a little while. Maybe they can even save up money and he could do _something_ for Imelda. There has to be something he could give to her. Some way he could help her. Right now he has too much fuzz in his brain to even begin to figure it out. Ernesto pats his back comfortingly.

“Don’t worry. Trust me:”

He does. He truly does. He doesn’t trust Ruiz as far as he can throw him but maybe he’s wrong. Ernesto wouldn’t put up with him if he didn’t see _something_ about the man. Though Héctor wonders if it’s only hope that keeps him there. Ernesto wraps an arm around his shoulders and it takes Héctor a moment to realize they’re drifting away from the _Última_. Rolling his eyes, he ducks under Ernesto’s arm and heads toward it, ignoring Ernesto’s groan behind him.

“I still don’t know why you brought her here,” Ernesto says for the dozenth time and Héctor decides not to explain again that, well, more or less, she brought herself. It’s also not worth it to bring up all he had planned to do. To show her. Because he can’t yet and Ernesto would only complain about Héctor slacking off. And he gets it, he does, dream making is hard work and he can’t afford to be distracted; but he if he can’t enjoy or look forward to _something_ , what is a dream actually worth?

“She’s just using you,” Ernesto says as they reach the kitchen. Héctor rolls his eyes again, rapping his knuckles three times on the open shutter before giving his friend a look.

“She works for herself, lives by herself and feeds—” Us, he wants to say and catches himself just in time with a worried glance inside. “Me. If anything we’re using her.” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. It’s true. He doesn’t want to exactly. He’d visit her even if all she did was glare at him and shut the door in his face. She does glare, though he’s beginning to think it’s not really directed at him, but she also gives him food and sometimes a kiss if she’s feeling really annoyed…

Which he doesn’t get. He’s sure it’s not supposed to go that way, but it does. _Why_ it does he still hasn’t figured out. Anyway, he both wants and doesn’t want the food. Or rather he wants it without the attached worry of her worrying about it— or thinking what she might be sacrificing for it— either buying or foregoing food of her own. Corrido is a good guy but could be stingy. But the first time Imelda had given him food this way, Héctor had told her that he was fine and not to bother and she’d told him to shut up and take it. So he had. And it had been _delicioso_.

“Of course she does look after herself,” Ernesto says, arms folded as he leans a hip against the wall. “But that doesn’t mean she’s not using you.”

“Uh huh.” Héctor says, a hand on his own hip. “How?”

“She’s setting up a trap of course. Baiting you with a bit of cheese and then.” He claps his hands together. Héctor snorts. He’s not even sure what she would get from that. He’s about to say something when Imelda comes to the window, glaring. There is flour on her nose and he’s struck dumb by just how cute it is, wanting to thumb it or kiss it off but half afraid she’d bite him if he made the attempt— then wondering if it would really be so bad.

“Here.” She shoves a small bundle of tamales out and he takes it.

“I share these with Ernesto.” It occurs to him as he says it this may not be the best time to say it and she never said he _couldn_ _’t_ share them with Ernesto, but he doesn’t want to somehow be caught in a lie when he promised he wouldn't’ do that kind of thing. Her glare seems to focus on him, a curl of her hair falling over her forehead and clinging there slightly from sweat.

“Stop hanging out at the window, you tramp, and get to work!” a woman snarls from within. Héctor winces. Imelda’s jaw works and her nose flares, reminding him of a horse he saw once the moment before it sent its rider flying.

“I am not stupid,” she tells him finally, her voice flat and hard. This is not going to get him an annoyed kiss, he has the feeling. Which is fine. But…

“I know…” He reaches in and rubs the flour of her nose with his thumb. “See you tomorrow?” She presses his hand to her soft cheek with her own, her eyes closing.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she murmurs, and then eyes opening again, looking at him through her lashes. “ _Gracias_.”

“Imelda!” the woman snaps.

“I’m busy!” Imelda snaps back, stamping her foot. “ _Uno momento_ for God’s sake! _Madre mio!_ _”_

Héctor laughs. He can’t help it. Maybe it’s because he’s tired but he can’t stop. She screws up her mouth and gives him a shove, but her eyes are dancing and then she laughs too, resting her forehead against his.

“You are going to get in trouble,” he says, suddenly realizing this. What will happen if? Her smile dips a little and she brushes his hair from his forehead with her fingertips and presses a kiss to it.

“It’s fine. Since you’re here.”  He’s about to ask how he makes a difference when she leans in and kisses him, soft and tender before leaving the window. Héctor sighs, cheek resting on his fist as he watches her go about the kitchen. The cook glares at her but Imelda doesn’t even seem to notice as she goes back to making tortillas. The world tries to bite at her and she bites back even harder. _Ay,_ what a woman.

“Did I miss something?” Ernesto says and Héctor blinks, remembering he’s there. He pulls away from the window, seeing his friend’s raised eyebrow. “She will cause you nothing but misery.”

“You really need to get over Carmen, _amigo_ ,” he says, fishing out a tamale. “Here, have one.”

“This has nothing to do with Carmen!” Ernesto blusters, taking it and stumbling after Héctor as he moves away into the mid-morning sunshine. “She was just a passing fancy. Not even good looking.”

“You were writing poems,” Héctor says, biting into his own tamale. Hmmm. Wonderful. “Bad ones.”

“It’s just what’s expected when you court someone. Even if you’re not interested in them.” Ernesto tugs down his shirt, pushes his dark hair back with a smooth gesture. “She’d never have been able to appreciate it anyway.”

Well from what he’d heard she’d tried to appreciate one and hadn’t and so they’d had a big cat fight for three days before she nearly dumped him in a water trough. Poor Nesto. Héctor really shouldn’t tease him about it.

“Nah, she wouldn’t.” Since if you wanted to appreciate Ernesto for his poetry, you were wanting to appreciate the wrong guy. “There’s someone out there just for you, _amigo,_ I can feel it.”

“I don’t need a someone,” Ernesto says. “And if you were smart you’d realize you didn’t either. Men like us, Héctor, we’re made to be bachelors for life.”

“So long as we’re not broke for life,” he mutters. But they won’t be. Even if Ruiz doesn’t turn out they’ll figure out something. He shakes his head and rubs the tiredness from his eyes and lifts his face to the sun splashing warm across his nose. “So tell me, what’s the plan today?” He almost hopes that there is no plan. That they are free to do whatever and go wherever.

“I have a few places in mind to try. Maybe _La Estrella Brillante_.”

“Dressed like this they won’t even let us in the door,” Héctor mutters, absently noting a new hole near the ragged hem of his shirt that he has no idea how it got there. That was only a place for the _rico_ side of town, a side that they rarely touched though a lot of their _compadres_ dreamed about it. Some even tried to sing on the street corners of the wealthier before annoyed _policia_ drove them off.

“After they hear whose wedding we are playing for they’ll change their mind.” Ernesto winks at him. “Well for me at least,” he adds with a laugh, clapping Héctor’s shoulder. “You may have to play under a window.”

“ _Gracias_ for your concern,” Héctor says flatly. “Maybe I’ll think about it the day I have more than three shirts.”

“You might even have four if we pull this off,” Ernesto says, taking a deep breath and letting it out. There are practically stars shining in his friend’s eyes as he looks off in the middle distance and Héctor’s irritation fades. Nesto can’t help it if he’s a dreamer. After so long being down in the dumps, it’s good to see him learn to dream.

“Just think of it, _compadre_ ,” he murmurs. “Our names spoken everywhere we go. People hanging on our every word. More money than we know what to do with. We’ll be the shining stars from here to Mexico City and maybe even beyond. Maybe even the world!”

“Maybe.” That might be fun, seeing the world, seeing new sights and meeting new people and eating new food. Maybe he can convince Imelda to come with him when they go.

“But before any of that, we need to see Ruiz.”

“Mm.” For the handoff, he doesn’t say, though he feels it.

“And… well, I have a new idea for our routine,” Ernesto says, thrusting a folded up bit of paper at it. “I wrote it last night.”

“A song?” Héctor says, feeling a thrill. He’s never known Ernesto to write anything before.

“ _S_ _í_ , but don’t read it yet,” Ernesto says, closing a hand over his as he starts to open it. “Wait until I’m talking to Ruiz.”

“Sure.” Then the rest catches up to him. “Hold on, hold on, hold on.” He holds up a hand. “Why are you talking to Ruiz alone? We are a team, you know.”

“What? So you can groan and roll your eyes?” Ernesto shakes his head. “You have lousy business sense, _amigo_ , and he is our partner. We are _counting_ on him to make this happen. Without it we are nothing.”

He sighs. “Fine.” It’s not really fine but he doesn’t want to fight about it. Not again. Instead, when they get to the cantina that Ruiz haunts, he chooses to sit instead nearby at the Fuente _de Gallo._ He takes a moment to splash his face with the cold water and take a drink before settling on the fountain’s stone lip. A man nearby, who looked like he’d been on the receiving end of a few brutal fights, began to play ‘La Adelita’ on an equally beat up _vihuela_ to a pair of sombrero wearing men wandering by. It strikes a chord in Héctor and he smiles, remembering with faint sadness _Se_ _ñor_ Campos, remembering how he’d been kind in a gruff way, and how he’d died protecting Santa Cecilia from the _Federales_. He moves a little closer to drop some _centavos_ in the man’s ragged hat.

“Sorry, _muchacho_ ,” he says as the man looks up at him, one eye swelled shut and bruised purple. “It’s all I have left.”

The man gives him a half smile.

“ _De nada_. Don’t worry about it,” he rasps.

He gives the man a pat on the shoulder and then opens the paper Ernesto gave him, smiling a bit at the elegant handwriting. It’s always amazes him how well his friend can do cursive, everything looping and flowing, like art.

The lyrics on the other hand…

 

_The big man rides into town on a very strong horse_

_And all the Se_ _ñoritas fall at his feet_

_Even in the horse trough and in the mud_

_Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay_

_Look at this big man and big grin_

_Don_ _’t you want to be him_

_Well you can_ _’t. Only he is him._

_But you can hear him sing_

_Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay_

“ _Ay_ _…_ ” It’s kind of cute in a way and reminds him kind of his own first songs, like: ‘ _El Sol se Acerca_ ’ and ‘ _La Hermana Josefina es Estupido_ ’ She’d caught him singing that one day and then had made him write it out seventy times so that he’d never wanted to look at it again. He breathes a laugh.

But this song…

 He blows out a breath. He wouldn’t mind singing it. Even in public he would. But he’s not sure if it will get the reception Ernesto hopes it will have. The people they play for don’t really like that kind of thing and would probably mock him which meant he would pout about it.

The _m_ _úsico_ beside him gives a ragged sigh as if he agrees, leaning against the fountain, one hand drooping onto his lap. It’s not the liveliest of afternoons and he can tell by the _centavos_ that the man hasn’t had the best of luck.

“Long day?” Héctor asks, folding the song and tucking it back in his pocket.

“The longest,” the _m_ _úsico_ says. “Longest week, longest month. I just want to get home.”

“Where’s home?”

The man rolls his head up to look at Héctor and smirks with one side of his mouth.

“ _Buena Suerte._ _”_

Héctor laughs a bit at the name and the man does too. Good Luck. What a name. Either a statement or a hope depending. He opens his guitar, smiling fondly at it, and tunes it.

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell. Just a little village out in flatlands. We have cacti, lizards and a lake that’s all but dried up.”

“Hard times for _Buena Suerte_ ,” he says. The man shrugs.

“It’s a living. The _familia_ has raised burros out there for five generations, but this _hombre tonto_ decided that he could cut it as a _m_ _úsico_.” He shakes his head. “Not around here, he can’t. So he’s going home and taking over the ranch like he should have done to begin with.”

The end of a dream, maybe. He can’t know. But he doesn’t feel too sorry for the man. Maybe it’s because he’s an _hu_ _érfano_ but it seems nice to have someone and something to go back to. He absently strums ‘La Adelita’ since it’s on his mind, and then, with a laugh, gets a sudden inspiration and begins to sing along.

 

“ _Buena Suerte_ is what they call my hometown.

And oh, how I want that to be true.

But I sit at the F _uente de Gallo_

And I wish that I knew what to do.”

 

The man laughs, playing along with the _vihuela_ , the rich clear notes rising into the air.

“I’m open to suggestions, _muchacho_ ,” the man says. Héctor thinks. Then grins.

 

“Along came a girl named Sofia

Her eyes were dark, her dress a bright sky blue

So I danced with this girl named Sofia

And then… with all her sisters, too.”

 

“ _YIPA!_ _”_ the man says, and laughs. Héctor slows then, rising from the fountain to stand and sings in a soft high voice.

 

“It was joyous, then the time came…when I knew I had to leave. So I met with my dear Sofia and said…”

 

The tune picked up once more and he starts to dance.

 

“I have to get back to _Buena Suerte_

My burros are braying my name

And if you want to get married, my darling

I’m sure they’ll call you the same.

 

_Buena Suerte_ is what they call my hometown.

And now, I know that it is true!

By my side is my sweetheart Sofia~”

 

“And by now,” the man sings. “All of her sisters, too!”

 

Héctor laughs. A sudden applause goes up startling him and he grins and turns in place as he sees they’ve gotten a small crowd.

“ _Gracias, gracias_ ,” he says with a laugh and a sweeping bow. Then he picks up the man’s raggedy hat. “Some blessings for the happy couple, eh?” He can’t help but grin as _centavos_ and even a few pesos tumble into the hat from the amused crowd. After that, he plays Juanita, which has everyone in stitches and by the time he’s done, the hat is almost filled to the brim. Even better, in the distance is the solemn cry of a train.

“What do you think, _amigo_?” he says to the man. “Shall we go for broke?” A train crowd would be _fantastico_ and allow him to modify the San Menas song to boot. There has to be a way to rework it so Ernesto can sing _and_ play and it won’t be so embarrassing. The _m_ _úsico_ grins and then cringes at something and begins to stuff the money into the sachet on his worn belt.

“Better not,” he says, and before Héctor can ask, holds up the hat, coins jangling as if asking him if he wants a share.

“No, _gracias_ ,” Héctor says, holding up his hands. He’s pretty well taken care of and this guy seems like he needs all the help he can get.

“ _Muchos Gracias_ ,” the man says, putting the rest away and clapping his hat on his head, his face seeming to pale so the bruise stands out even more. “Listen, let me give you one word of advice. I can tell you’re a _m_ _úsico_ with talent…”

“You think so?” Héctor says, flushing happily

“— but whatever you do, however it sounds, don’t get mixed up with--”

“Héctor!” Ernesto calls. Héctor turns distracted to see his friend coming toward them wearing a tight smile. One of Ruiz’s friends they call the Ox, but never to his face, is trundling beside him; his feet the size of small carts tramping across the cobblestone. “I heard you playing.”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Héctor says. “With—” He half turns but the man is gone, swallowed up by the swarm of people heading to the train station. Ernesto laughs in a way that sounds like a bark and puts an arm tightly around Héctor’s shoulders.

“Didn’t we talk about not giving it away for free?” he says under his breath. Héctor rolls his eyes and pushes him off, repacking his guitar.

“We used to do it all the time in Santa Cecilia. Anyway it was just for fun.”

“We can’t afford fun right now, _mi amigo,_ I thought you understood that.”

“ _S_ _í, sí._ ” He understands. But he refuses to apologize for it.

“Our _compadre_ here is going to show us the building Ruiz acquired. _S_ _í,_ acquired. Just to put your fears at rest.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

Night again. The chill of the cloudless sky seeping into their bones. It’s not as late at night as it sometimes is and there are even still people threading their way back to their homes or _posadas._ Normally, they’d be out much later but Ernesto is completely gone. He’d already thrown up twice in the gutter and seemed to be ready for a third round. He’d never seen Ernesto so drunk in all his life and was having a hard time supporting him as he half carried, half dragged him back to the shanty. It didn’t help that they were both pretty bruised from the bar fight they’d started.

Well—it wasn’t _exactly_ their fault. Ernesto had decided that they should sing his song: ‘El Héroe Vaquero’ in the tune of Santa Cecilia. No one had liked it. Barely anyone had paid attention. Then someone had requested Santa Menas instead which, they said, was the much better song. Ernesto, being the hurt _idiota_ he was, had said that San Cecilia was the superior version and anyone who thought otherwise wasn’t worthy of being a _m_ _úsico_.

Which, hey, Héctor had agreed with, only wouldn’t have said in a bar in San Menas packed with stone drunk San Menasians who weren’t happy with this. Fortunately for them there had been Santa Cecilians there too, vastly outnumbered, but odds had never stopped a Santa Cecilian, and never ever a Santa Cecilian _m_ _úsico_ ; Héctor thought with pride. And so, the fight had broken out.

Neither of them had wanted anything to do with it and had managed to get behind a table but not before Héctor had a black eye and Ernesto a bruise across his jaw where some heavy had decked him. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Héctor had managed to smuggle a few bottles of booze behind the table as well. Ernesto had slugged down most of it and Héctor only a little, which is just as well, he thought as he adjusted his grip. This is hard enough to do tipsy, let alone if they were both rolling back and forth across the street.

“This is pointless,” Ernesto moans, hiccupping in a very worrying way but thankfully no more than that. “Absolutely pointless. We should have stayed in Santa Cecilia. No one laughed when—when I wazza ratcatcher.”

“No one is laughing now, _amigo,_ ” Héctor says, frowning as they pass the _Posada_ _Última_. He wonders how Imelda’s day went. He wonders if she’s still awake. There are some lights glowing faintly in the cracked windows, but he’s on the wrong side of the building to see the attic room.

“They were laughing, I know it. I know it, _muchacho,_ ” He mutters to himself _._ _“_ They didn’t care… just about their stupid town. It _meant_ something! Something none of them could ever understand.”

“I know… I know…” And it’s brave of him, Héctor thinks. To sing a song straight from his guts. About what he wants to be and who he wants people to see him as. It’s more than Héctor’s ever been able to do. … though not for lack of trying. There’s just not much time to think in San Menas.

Héctor sighs and pushes it from his mind, concentrating on getting them both back to the shanty without another set of bruises for the trouble. It’s a small lean to of wood and cracked shutters and a door that’s always hanging off the hinge. They pay rent for it because everything costs in Santa Cecilia but at least it’s still technically in town.

“Home sweet home,” Héctor says, and even somewhat means it as he eases Ernesto down onto the bed, takes off his fancy _chaqueta_ before pushing him down and taking off his shoes. Ernesto sighs deeply, shakily, his eyes seeming glossy in the patch of tired moonlight.

“I hate this place,” he mutters.

“I know…” Though he would like it if he didn’t think he had to try so hard, Héctor thinks, but instead says: “Get some rest.”

Ernesto turns away from him, broad back hunched and Héctor takes out his guitar to play a gentle tune for him until the tension drains from his shoulder blades and snores fill the room. It will be alright eventually. It always is.

He sighs, knowing he should sleep himself. Tomorrow is going to be just as long as today, and longer if they have to dodge any irritated San Menasians. Only he’s wide awake. He leans in the doorway and watches the moon for a bit, wider now, a slowly opening eye surrounded by stars. It makes him restless.

 He starts outside and frowns as he nearly steps on the rigid body of a dead rat, foam fizzled about its teeth. Grimacing he plucks it up by the tail and carries it to the outhouse. Ernesto likes to poison the rats, it’s more effective, he says, than traps.  On one hand, it does seem to keep them out better and Héctor has woken up more than once with tiny feet scurrying over him or his hair being snipped off for some nest— on the other, he’s afraid for whatever might come along and eat them. He finishes the smelly business in an instant and is back outside, moving a few feet away from the outhouse and sucking in the cold night air.

Of course, this only takes him closer to the _posada._ Annd since he’s pointed in that direction already, he moves to close the distance, using the side street so he can see the attic room. There is a light on there still. She’s still awake then? Doing what? What does she do when awake and not working or with him? He doesn’t know. Or maybe she’s fallen asleep with the light on. He’s never seen her sleep before. He wants to see her now that the night is still and Ernesto is sleeping and he is mostly sober.

Héctor shifts the guitar, picking up a pebble … Then glances at the instrument and begins to play instead— that sweet sad from his guts song that she believes in.  He’s not sure if she’ll hear it or not and his heart lifts as the light in her room brightens and in the next instant she appears at the window, soft red shawl draped around her shoulders, hair loose and dark and beautiful.  He can’t see her face clearly, but it doesn’t matter. He plays the song until it is finished, the lyrics drifting just out of sight— but the feeling is the same— the tension— the space between them that he’d cross if he could; the longing that’s almost physical.

As the notes fade into silence it reminds him of the day of the storm, the day that they’d danced, watching her vibrant and moving, outside in the humid air with sweat licked skin, her eyes dazzling. He’d been caught up in every step, and a little later in every rain soaked kiss, and then the stillness where they’d walked in a sleeping world, just the two of them.

Somewhere in the darkness a man hacks spit into the street and curses, somewhere else a baby cries thinly; from down the street, the tired hooves of a horse clop against stone as the night soil man scrapes shit off the streets. He breathes a laugh. Santa Cecilia this isn’t.

Imelda straightens, pushing her hair over her shoulder and crooks her finger as if asking him to come up. His heart surges and he wants to whoop. At the last moment, he strums a _grito_ instead, and is rewarded with a barely heard laugh as she moves away from the window. He feels that if he jumped, he could fly to the window, or if she lowered a rope made of blankets he could skim right up it like a lizard up a wall.

Instead he fairly floats into the _posada_ the back way, sneaking up the stairs, feeling light as a cloud. Time seems to skip somehow because a second later he finds himself at her door and knocking lightly. The door opens and he can barely get a word in when her hand sneaks out and grabs him by the collar, hauling him in. The next moment, his back thumps against the door, her warm fingers dance at the base of his neck and into his hair as her soft lips press against his and she hums in a way that makes his hair stand on end. The guitar is between them because he hasn’t had a chance to put it down and he can feel the soft hot give of her stomach against his hand as she leans against him, suddenly vividly aware of how thin the cotton of her nightdress is.

He tries very carefully not to think about that.

“ _Buenos_ ” he tries. She kisses him. “ _Noches._ ” Another kiss, that he leans into and her fingers slide up through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp and making him shiver. “Imelda.” He finishes, just to be funny.  She pulls back and looks up at him from under her eyelashes and the guitar slips in his grip a little.

“ _Buenos Noches,_ _”_ she replies in a husky voice and he thumbs a string without even meaning to. Then her brow furrows and her eyes grow hard. “Teto!” she says, seeming annoyed.

“What?” What did he do?

“What happened to your face?” she says, reaching up to lightly touch where the bruise is, sending a faint pulse of pain. Oh, right. That.

“No big deal, we just failed to get out of a bar fight.”

She clicks her tongue. “Is that what happened to your shirt?”

“Hey?” He looks down as she holds up a flap of it where it’s been split halfway up his side in a long ragged tear.

“How’d that happen?”

She sighs, flipping one end of her shawl over her shoulder.

“Take it off so I can mend it,” she says, turning into the room. He rubs the side of his neck.

“Ah, Imelda, you don’t have to—”

“Just do it,” she says, annoyed, not even looking at him. He sighs and sets the guitar aside before unbuttoning his shirt. So much for…whatever this was going to be. He is always work for her. If she isn’t making him food she is patching him up or fixing his clothes. Is he being careless and this is the consequence? But he’s not sure how to live in another way or stop things from happening.

Héctor takes off his shirt, chills prickling over his skin at the sudden cooler air and hands it to her, wondering why she stills a moment, gaze flicking up and down before finally turning back toward the bed to sit on it. He joins her, absently rubbing his arm. Silence fills the room, thick and uncomfortable. He hunches his shoulders and watches the needle pull through one of the holes, wondering what she’s thinking.

“I don’t know what you see in this place,” Imelda grumbles after a moment, needle flicking in and out, the tear tugging together like magic. “You look like a beggar, you sleep in a shanty….” She shakes her head. “Is this really what you wanted?”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” he says and when she gives him a look, nods. “ _S_ _í,_ ” he repeats. “San Menas… sure it has its problems but it’s bigger! There’s so much more potential and it’s really an interesting place if you give it a chance.” Sometimes it was just fun to hang by the train station and watch the crowd— though he hadn’t done that in a while. “And the shanty? Ehh… that’s only temporary. When me and Ernesto—”

She snorts. He’s not sure at what so he goes on.

“…Make it big or even just slightly better— things will look up. You’ll see.”

“If you survive it,” she says. He lets out a breath and rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

She slaps the shirt onto her lap, head tilting back as if praying for guidance.

“ _Dios mio,_ Héctor, you are _not_ fine.” She sets the shirt to the side and grabs his wrist. He gets to his feet as she does and lets her guide him to were there’s an oval mirror on the wall in a tarnished silver frame.

“Look at yourself!” she says with a gesture. “Tell me that that’s fine.”

“It’s fi… _ay_ _…_ ” He looks mostly like he normally looks from the neck down, he thinks. A sight he’s gotten used to.  Paler and scrawnier than most with a hopeful little scribbly patch of hair right in the center of his chest. But his face…?

“Ookay, maybe I’m a little rough around the edges.” He really does look like a beggar. A half dead one at that. His skin seems to be pulled up right against the bone and the eye that isn’t swollen shut has a tired smudge underneath it. Worst of all, a pimple has started to form under his lower lip which is just unfair.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Teto,” Imelda says and his eyes skim to hers where she’s peering over his shoulder. He can feel how close she is now, the whisper of her shawl against his back, the warmth of her breath, goosebumps raise along his arms that are impossible to hide.

Even so…

“I don’t want to be a burden on you,” he murmurs. She didn’t come here to take care of him and he didn’t want her to have to. “I wanted you to enjoy yourself.”

“How can I enjoy myself when you look like that?” she says, watching him with dark eyes. “Would you be able to?”

If she looked like he did? He couldn’t even imagine. He could feel his heartbeat pick up just thinking about seeing her so thin and if she ever got-- if someone ever did that to her face… something turned over inside him, a surprising emotion he couldn’t name and didn’t know what to do with.

He quickly banishes it. It’s not important. She doesn’t look like him and hasn’t been hurt and he sees her point. Which also means she’s concerned about him and he can’t help be a little happy about that.

 “What?” she grumbles, and he realizes he’s smiling. His grin only grows as he meets her gaze.

“You like me.”

She snorts and nips his shoulder which hurts but also sends a lemon juice zing through him, making his toes curl in his sandals.

“The point is,” she says resting her hands on his shoulder blades, her fingertips feeling like silk against his bare skin, her palms hot. She kisses where she bit and he sucks in a shaking breath.

“Life is so fragile,” she continues. That’s not the only thing, he thinks, as she continues pressing warm kisses along his shoulder. His hands twitch and he swallows hard, unsure of what to do about this, though he wants to do _something_.

“You have to protect it,” she all but whispers, pressing a kiss just below his neck. Her hands start to drift down his back, but it’s the ghosting scrape of her nails which make him startle and chills spark through him in dizzying waves.

“Imelda!” he says, turning almost instinctively to capture her hands.

“ _S_ _í_?” She looks up at him from under her lashes, that secret smile shadowing the corners of her mouth. He wants to kiss her, to try the ultimate kiss again, to pick her up and set her on the dresser so that her leg wraps around him again, to kiss her neck so she squeaks and hits him lightly with a closed fist.

But that was a dangerous road to go down and he isn’t sure he’s ready to. Or if _she_ _’s_ ready. She might like to kiss him, but will she be so happy if _chilito_ makes an appearance? He’s not so sure. He brings her hands up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles instead. Turns one so he can kiss her palm, the inside of her wrist, feeling her fingers twitch a little against his cheek.

“Ask Corrido to let you go for the day,” he says, watching her face and the way her face seems flushed. He opens his mouth a little, feels the faint fluttering of her pulse. Her lips part further. An invitation.

“Why?”

“So you can come with me and Ernesto.”

Her mouth closes, her eyes flatten. He had a sudden feeling he’s said something wrong, but what it is he has no idea. She pulls away, tugging the hand that was still entwined with hers and leading him to the bed.

“Sit,” she says. He obeys. She sits beside him, thigh to thigh, gently plucking the sleeping Sofia from the folds of his shirt and handing the kitten to him. She sews furiously in silence for a while, her brow knotted. Héctor pets the sleepy Sofia as she falls back asleep, purring against his stomach. Had he said something wrong? He doesn’t think so. So he waits until she speaks, hoping he’ll get a clue.

“What would I do? I’m no _m_ _úsico,_ ” she says eventually, though she sounds more tired than angry. He wonders if she’s worried about it, though is not sure why she would be. Is it the crowds, he wonders, remembering the way she’d tugged at his sleeve when they’d come to San Menas. He remembers too seeing her in Santa Cecilia for the first time, seeming terrified but strong. He shrugs at the question.

“Whatever you wanted.”

“Even if I just sit and watch?”

“ _S_ _í_.”

She lowers the shirt once more and looks at him. He impulsively brushes the hair from her face, feeling it tickle the back of his hand and wants to bury his nose in it. Her eyes lower a little and she leans against his hand, then takes his wrist and pulls it down gently, looking away.

“It’s… It’s not my world… I don’t…I don’t know what I’d do…” She shakes her head, her lips pressed together. “I would drag you down.”

He laughs. She glowers at him and he stops but can’t stop grinning. Is that what she’s worried about?

“Imelda, if I looked up and saw you I could do anything. I could fly!”

“You could not!” she says, smacking him on the arm. But he can see she’s trying not to smile.

“ _S_ _í_. _Es verdad!_ I could. Here, I’ll show you! _Mira!_ ” He gets up to pretend to go to the window, accidentally spilling the kitten from his lap.

“Don’t!” Imelda says, grabbing onto his waist. He falls back, tripping over his own two feet and landing hard on the bed, sending it screeching across the floor. 

“ _Idiota_ ,” she says, but is laughing and he’s laughing too. Maybe she’s right. But, oh, to be an _idiota_ for Imelda is the most wonderful feeling in the world. She rests her head on his shoulder, hair spilling over his chest in tickling waves. Her breath dances over his skin. She hums and snakes her arm over him and since she’s half laying on his, he curls it around her waist, pulling her closer and trying very hard not to think how thin her night dress is.

“Will you come?” he asks after a moment, shifting to press a kiss on her head, smell her hair which makes him close his eyes. How can she smell so nice? Her fingers play in a lazy spiral along his ribs and he matches it on her side, wondering at the shaky little sigh.

“Héctor…” she says into the lazy stillness.

“Hm?” His heart kicks up.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she murmurs. “I’ll come.”

He lets out a long happy sigh, and she giggles, her teeth grazing against his shoulder once more but not at all painfully. She relaxes with a quiet sigh, her breathing deep. He feels the bed shift as Sofia jumps back on it and gives the kitten an apologetic look down his nose. She ignores him, choosing to curl close to Imelda’s belly, rumbling contentedly.

He could stay like this forever.

He wants to stay like this forever.

All they’d have to do is shift until they are lying down the bed instead of across it and pull close and sleep in the cozy warmth. But— consequences. He has to be more careful of consequences. That’s what Padre de Léon would want. Even if nothing will happen to Imelda if he sleeps here, Ernesto won’t be happy waking up from a bender alone— especially considering how bad he was when he went to bed.

“I should go…” he mutters, not trying yet to get up. Imelda’s fingers still against him. “I have a long day tomorrow.” He lets out a sigh. And a long day the day after that, and the day after that. Imelda frowns and props herself up on her elbow to look down at him.  Her hair shifts to fall against his collarbone and neck and he swallows, resisting the temptation to reach up and cup her jaw, lean up and meet her frowning mouth with his own. He’d never get out of here if he started all that.

… and why didn’t he want to again?

…Oh right, Ernesto.

“I hope it pays off for you soon, Teto,” she says, tracing the line of his nose with her fingertip. He hopes so too. Otherwise what’s the point? He’s not making any money and while he still loves to play, he’s tired of being tired.

“You, too.” He cups her cheek, rises to kiss her but she moves away, sitting up. It’s probably better because he really does need to get out of here, he thinks— even as he feels the absence like a stone in his gut.

“I have what I need,” she says, looking away and handing him his shirt. He doesn’t want to take it. Wants to throw it across the room and pull her back to where it’s warm and comfortable. But he does, sliding his arms through and buttoning it up, smelling her a bit in the collar which is going to drive him _loco_ in all the best ways.

“I have a place to stay and I can put money aside for Oscar and Filipe…”

He expects her to say more, maybe talk about how worried she is for them or how much she wants to see them again. Instead she just rolls her shoulders in a shrug and gives him a faint smile, looping an arm around his neck and kissing him gently.

“I will talk to Corrido and let you know.” She meets his eyes. “But be there, Héctor, when you promise.”

“I will…” He takes her hand and moves it so she can feel his heart beat and, he hopes, feel the honesty of his promise. “I swear it.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Ernesto is saying. Héctor rolls his eyes and squints in the small cracked mirror he found half buried in the dirt. The bruise is fading. He can at least open his eye now. And his hair is a bit shaggy but he’s managed to comb it so it looks okay. There is not a hole in his shirt and it’s actually patched in places. All his shirts were hole free and he kind of likes it now that he looks at it. It makes him feel taller somehow. He even has a ribbon that he bought with a few precious _centavos_. It’s thin and black and he can tie it around his collar into a little bow and he enjoys the way it shines in the light. Imelda will like it too, he hopes.

Today is the day. Lazy late-afternoon light yawns in the doorway. He pulls his bangs from his eyes only to have them flop back into his face again and wonders if he should tie his hair back somehow until he could get it cut.

“Did you hear me?” Ernesto says, blocking the doorway and, more importantly, the sunlight. “I said it was the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“ _S_ _í,_ I heard you, Nesto.” And all the hundred other times he’s brought it up over the past few days. Eh, his hair is fine. Imelda has never cared before. He grabs his guitar case and takes a half step toward where Ernesto is still guarding the door like an anxious angry bull dog.

“She’ll upset everything,” Ernesto says, soft and urgent and dramatic. “I warn you. We’ll be ruined.”

Héctor raises his eyebrows. “If she can ruin us in a one day, we’re not the _m_ _úsicos_ we thought we were.” At Ernesto’s continued frown he added: “Come on. It’ll be fine. I’ll show her the sights a little, we’ll sing songs, you’ll probably never even notice she’s there.” But _he_ would. Every single moment of it. Ernesto pulls back, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. Then he raises up and folds his arms like he doesn’t intend to move.

“I’ll go out the window,” Héctor says flatly. He will, too. And pray that he doesn’t snag his shirt on anything so that it rips again, undoing Imelda’s hard work. On the other hand… if he does he can explain the situation to her and she might be willing to fix it up again— and he can use another night or two like that!

Fortunately, and unfortunately Ernesto backs out of the doorway and onto the street. Héctor lets out a breath and follows him. It’s a nice sunny day. Warm and dry. The summer seems to be easing its way out, but he wouldn’t mind another rumbly thunderstorm or two before it went— especially if he and Imelda got caught out in it. The thought makes him smile and he hums ‘ _La Llorona_ ’ under his breath as he makes his way to the _Posada de_ _Última_. Ernesto looms along beside him, like his own personal thundercloud, but the nearer they get to the _posada_ , the more he straightens, flashing a smile and waving at people they know. Ernesto is always ready for a show, Héctor thinks fondly.

He goes to knock on the kitchen shutters, then realizes with a happy jolt that she is not working there today so she’ll probably be in the common room; or her room. He can go up and meet her he thinks with a happy sigh, and she’ll open the door and --

 Ernesto begins to run a comb through his slick black hair, catching Héctor’s attention. Proooobably best not to got to her room, he thinks. He can’t really see Ernesto wanting to go there or her wanting him there to begin with.

On the other hand… if he goes by himself… The thought makes him grin. Immediately after he shakes his head.

No, no, no. If he goes to her room it will probably take them a while to get out, which won’t make Ernesto any happier. Maybe she’s in the common room… Héctor thinks as he strolls toward the door. But if she is, she’ll see him right away. The thought makes him stop at the door. He tries to flick his bangs out of his eyes, makes sure ribbon isn’t crooked or that he hasn’t stained or torn the shirt anywhere.

“ _Please_ ,” Ernesto says, pushing in. Héctor has little choice but to follow him or look like an _idiota_ standing out there on his own. He blinks until his eyes adjust to the dimness and then—ah, there she is, sitting at a table near the door, hands cupped around a bowl. She is wearing one of his favorites, an off the shoulder grey-white dress, embroidered with tired but cheerful flowers. He likes the way it brings out the warm brown of her skin and how it says so many things about her. That she has flowers inside of her and flowers in her wake and maybe no one can see them but him, but, oh, they’re there.

He needs to buy her a flower, he decides as he floats over to her table. Something to match the ones on her dress and to sit bright in her dark hair which is bound in a braid round the crown of her head.

_Ay de mi, Imelda, Imelda_ …. He sings in his head as he sits across from her and she smiles at him with her mouth as well as her eyes, looking away, cheeks darkening. Can a man die of the overwhelming feeling of wanting to hold someone close and never let go? He doesn’t know but soon he’ll find out.

“What are you eating?” he asks, just so he can hear her voice in reply.

“Mango con Chili,” she says, lifting a slice from the bowl, the juice glistening on her fingers. “Want some?”

“ _S_ _í_.” He’s impressed by his ability to speak at all, let alone without squeaking. He’s also glad she asked that before she lifted the slice up to him as if inviting him to eat it from her fingers, because right now he isn’t sure he has a voice in him. Fortunately, the rest of him seems to know what to do and he leans forward and nips it from her fingers, not quite touching them— then nearly inhales it as her foot travels up his leg.

“Imelda!” he says, then immediately winces as he somehow gets chili-mango juice in his sinuses which burn like the devil. Imelda laughs, head tilting back, the sound like music. It’s beautiful. He can’t deny it. But he’s going to get revenge this time. Somehow. Some way. Her foot continues to travel up his leg and he reaches under and captures her ankle, setting it on his lap so at least he’ll be free of that distraction. An idea is forming in is mind, though he’s not entirely sure what it is. Imelda lowers her head and looks at him, smiling underneath her lashes.

“You have something of mine,” she says, and her toes brush the fabric of his shirt. He tells himself to not be affected by this at all and steals another slice just to prove he can eat it without going to pieces.

“Just borrowing.” He rubs his thumb over the knob of her ankle. Is it his imagination or did her breath hitch? “I promise I’ll bring it right back.”

She breathes a laugh through her nose, leaning back on her chair, hands folded over her stomach and looking wonderfully comfortable.

“What if I want you to keep it?”

She has the best timing, he has to admit, because the slice of mango is already in his mouth as she says it and he swallows impulsively. Fortunately, none of it goes up his nose but it’s not well chewed or at all and slides a fiery juicy trial down his throat. How does she always win? He’s going to have to find the knack.

“And here I thought we were going to have a _fiesta_ ,” Ernesto says, in his bright sociable I’m going to have a talk to you later Héctor and you won’t like it, voice.

Oh…right.

He coughs and lets Imelda’s ankle down.

“Ah… s _í_ , we’d better start out,” Héctor says, watching her. “If you’re ready.”

She nods, her expression flattening. It’s amazing how she can do that; laugh one minute and be stone the next. Ernesto’s face is just as fluid as hers as his expression turns almost cheerful, his eyes dancing.

“I’ve heard so much about you, _Se_ _ñorita,_ ” he says in his pleasant bass which turns heads even here. “It will be an honor to have you accompanying us for the day.” He holds out his hand, expecting her to take it, Héctor knows, so he can kiss it, but she raises her eyebrow at him and then glances at Héctor as if asking what to do.

“She’s heard a lot about you, too,” Héctor says, stepping in and taking Imelda’s hand. Her eyebrows rise further. Even Ernesto looks dubious. “Aheh… Well… that was a lie. _Lo siento._ But, _hey!_ Now you have the perfect opportunity to get to know one another.” He grins, looking between the both of them. Neither of them look really impressed and he suddenly wonders if this was a good idea to begin with.

On the other hand, the alternative is to not see Imelda— or at least not often and it was only one day.

“Sooo let’s go!” He says as cheerfully as he can. “ _Vamanos!_ ”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” Ernesto says, flatly, dropping his hand. “ _Vamanos._ _”_

Imelda says nothing. But her hand is relaxed in his as they go back out into the warmth and sunshine so that’s a positive sign, isn’t it? He swings their joined hands between them because he can, taking a deep breath. It’s really happening! He’s taking Imelda out to see San Menas! Well…some of San Menas, he tells himself. Bars and cantinas and restaurants but— it’s more than she’s seen before! So that’s a start.

“We do have a lot to go through today,” Ernesto says. “And San Menas can be overwhelming for the…uninitiated.” He smiles. “So feel free to go home at any time.”

“No, _gracias_ ,” Imelda says as if he just offered her a drink she didn’t want. It’s hard to be mad at Ernesto when he’s shut down so easily, so Héctor just settles for being mildly annoyed.

“Which route today, Nesto?” Héctor says in an attempt to make things cheerful.

“Well—”

“Route?” Imelda asks, completely overriding him.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Héctor says. “If we perform too often at one place, we get boring. If we rarely show up, well if we were famous that’d be different, but we’re nobodies so we’d be forgotten. So we try to hit different places every day while keeping some of the same ones, but in a way so we’re not running back and forth across half the city.”

“I came up with it,” Ernesto says, bristling with pride.

“Mm.” Is all Imelda says and Ernesto sags in the shoulders. Héctor winces a little.

“Well I mean… it’s a great idea.”

Imelda says nothing. Héctor clears his throat.

 Silence.

Too much silence and Ernesto is storm clouding again but trying not to show it.

“Look there’s the _Fuente de Gallo!_  That’s the first place Ernesto and I played…well after we got kicked out of _Gaucho_ _Marco._ ”

“Why?” Imelda asks.

“We looked like _flojos_ _…._ Though mostly me,” he adds when Ernesto clears his throat. “The _Fuente_ is where we met Ruiz. Well… the Ox…” He gestures to the beefy man is standing by the _Fuente_ , grinning with sharp white teeth and talking two dusty rangy looking guys who look like they just rode into town. One of them still has a little moth bitten pony who keeps trying to eat the guy’s hat.

“And right next to it is _La Cojones de—_ Er I mean _El Gallo._ Where we played in a San Menas Cantina for the first time.” He thinks, then adds. “Without getting kicked out.” He leans in close and murmurs in Imelda’s ear. “They don’t mind _flojos_ there.” She makes an odd little laughing noise, dancing to the side a little, shoulder going up as if to keep him away from her ear.

He grins. Did that tickle?

Does she like that?

Has he finally found his revenge?

“And where we’re playing now,” Ernesto breaks in, charming smile on his face. “Because it’s been a long time. And we owe it to them to sing our best on today of all days.”

“What’s today?” Héctor asks, not trusting this lead up.

“I wouldn’t expect you to pay attention,” Ernesto says, sniffing. “ _Sadly,_ however, the cantina is not open to women.” He puts a hand over his heart as if in deep sorry. Héctor gives his friend a look.

“Nesto…”

“So you’ll have to wait by the fountain, _Se_ _ñorita_. Only, well, San Menas can be fairly dangerous… It’s understandable if you wish to be escorted home.”

“We don’t _have_ to sing here,” Héctor says. He’s about to say more but Imelda’s hand slips from his and he watches her head toward the fountain. “Imelda…”

Ernesto grabs his upper arm lightly, stopping him.

“See? She’s just walking away. Can’t even handle a little pressure.”

“She shouldn’t have to handle pressure,” Héctor says, wrenching away and turning to face him. “Listen, _amigo_ , I know you’re worried. I get it. But we’ve been going since we got here, and I’d like one day to spend with Imelda. Just one. Can we do that.”

But Ernesto isn’t even looking at him but somewhere behind him.

“What is she doing?” he murmurs. Héctor turns to see Imelda standing in front of the cantina.

Then goes inside the cantina.

 Ernesto sucks in a breath through his teeth. Héctor hurries to catch up with her, though is not entirely sure what he’ll do when he gets there. Imelda is standing in the entranceway, her chin lifted, arms folded as if daring the staring men. The barman gives her a leveled look.

“ _Se_ _ñorita_ , I think you’d better find somewhere else to be.”

“No,” she says which is amazing and wonderful and makes him want to laugh but overriding that is the cringing feeling that they’re going to get in trouble. He puts his hands on her shoulders. She startles and then relaxes when she recognizes him.

“We’ve decided we’re going to play somewhere else, Imelda,” he says. Which is a lie, but he’s determined to make it a truth, so it doesn’t count.

“Wait,” the bartender says, his eyes going wide.  “ _That_ _’s_ Imelda?”

“ _S_ _í?_ ” Héctor says, wondering how he knows. Imelda tenses under his hands again as a murmur runs through the room and more men turn to peer at her.

“ _Dios mio,_ ” says the bartender. “I don’t believe it.”

Others seem to be murmuring the same thing. Imelda looks back at Héctor and he shrugs. Sure, he’s talked about her once or twice but… this is a little weird.

“Is he telling the truth, De la Cruz?” the barman asks.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Ernesto says in a tired voice. A laugh goes around the room. Someone whoops. The barman shakes his head. Imelda’s expression becomes closed off. She’s angry. He thinks. He’s pretty sure. And it’s his fault?

“How does everyone know?” Héctor says. Ernesto gives him a flat look.

“Because every time you get drunk, she’s all you ever talk about.”

Héctor flushes, but the embarrassment becomes a complicated wiggle as Imelda laughs again, the throwing back her head kind, her voice rising clear as a songbird and he’s grinning despite himself.

“ _Idiota_ ,” she says, glancing her fingers over the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to perform here then?”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Héctor says dreamily at the same time Ernesto says:

“No.”

“No?” Héctor blinks. He’d thought—

“Not if she’s here,” Ernesto says, under his breath as if he didn’t want anyone to hear.

“Why not?” the barman says with a laugh. “What do you say, _hombres_? It’s not often we get to see a myth in person.” Some of the men cheer and the barman shoos an older man off a seat by the bar before wiping it off with a cloth and gesturing broadly.

“ _Se_ _ñorita._ ”

“We really can’t—” Ernesto starts, but Imelda crosses the room and perches in the seat, hands on her lap, head tilting and watching them expectantly while another cheer makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. _Ay,_ she is beautiful when she’s happy. Ernesto, on the other hand, is _not_ happy. His mouth is a flat line, his dark eyes hooded.

“Come on, Ernesto, it’s only for today,” Héctor says, elbowing him lightly in the side. “Besides! _Mira!_ Everyone is having a _great_ time! I’m sure they’ll love your song if you sing it.” That gets Ernesto’s attention as he knew it would. “Let’s start with _La Cigarra,_ everyone loves that one.” Besides which, he thinks, as he sets his guitar case on the table to retrieve it, Ernesto can sing the _hell_ out of it which always pleases everyone including him.

He tunes the guitar, getting it just perfect and looks up.

Imelda is there watching him.

The sight of her sends a shock right down to his toes.

She’s here. Actually here. Where she’s never been before.

She smiles at him and he can’t help but grin in return. Then casually plays the opening to _La Llorona._ Her head lifts and her cute nostrils flare but the side of her mouth curls up anyway and _ay~~_

“Héctor,” Ernesto says flatly and suddenly Héctor remembers where he is. He clears his throat and begins to play _La Cigarra_.

“No, not that one!” someone shouts and Héctor stops, surprised and fortunately before Ernesto sings. “Do _La Llorona._ ”

“ _S_ _í, La Llorona!_ ” says a second man. “Let the _mujer_ sing!”

 “Sing for him, _Se_ _ñorita_ ,” the barman says. Imelda raises her eyebrows at Héctor and he can hear what’s coming even before she says it.

“No.”

He claps a hand to his heart and wheels like he’s been struck. The men laugh. Even Imelda does, her cheeks flushing, her eyes dancing. It’s all Héctor can do not to play his affection for her right there and then and instead plucks a few sad notes to make the men laugh more.

“Why not your Adelita?” the Ox says, his voice rising over the laughter. Héctor turns to him.

“ _My_ Adelita?”

“The one you were singing at the _fuente_ the other day.”

“I was there for that,” says a man Héctor doesn’t know and then a third says:

“Come on, Rivera! Don’t leave us hanging!”

“Ah…well…” Héctor holds up his hands. He’s excited to play for them really, even if that song is nothing much and they’re mostly just curious. But… “You don’t really want to hear that. Ernesto—”

“Is going to get a beer,” Ernesto says, smiling and waving sarcastically as people cheer. “After all I haven’t listened to this version myself yet. I’d like to see what you do.”

He shoots his friend a grateful look, then gets himself warmed up. Even so his fingers stutter a bit when he starts to play, all eyes on him, Imelda’s eyes on him, Ernesto’s as he takes up a seat at a further table, smile fixed on his face. He feels like he somehow got thrown in the deep end even though he’s done this hundreds of times. Maybe it’s because they usually ease into it. Come in, have a few drinks, have a few laughs, start to play. Or because it’s spontaneous like at the _fuente_.

“This would be easier with a beer,” he says with a laugh and others chuckle with him.

“So would life, _hombre!_ ” says a man Héctor doesn’t know but is grateful for and the laugh rolls again.

“How about it,” Héctor says, wiggling his eyebrows at the barman though he knows they have a tab for miles. The barman gives him a single raised finger, as if saying that’s the only one he’s going to get and slides it onto the bar.

Imelda takes the tankard before Héctor can touch it, seeming to hold it up to him but the moment he reaches for it, she drinks from it herself, eyes smiling at him over the rim of the glass. The men of the cantina whoop and laugh and Héctor does too, even more so as in the next instant her face screws up.

“Disgusting!” she says, foam clinging tantalizingly to her lower lip before she licks it away with a swipe of her tongue and steals his breath in the same instant.

“It takes a lot of practice,” he says, surprised he managed to find words after that and reaches for it again. She pulls it away, holding it close to her stomach.

“I didn’t say I was done.: She licks her lower lip again as if considering the taste, then raises her head and looks at him down the length of her nose. “Go on, _m_ _úsico_ , play your song.” A sly smile comes to the corner of her mouth. “And if you’re any good, I’ll save you some.”

He laughs and bows his head, is tempted to steal a taste from her lips but dances back and plays instead. This time the song ripples from his fingers and his face flushes with heat as if he’d drunk the whole bar. He sings the silly little song that he’s decided to call _Buena Suerte_ , watching Imelda’s eyebrows rise as he mentions Sofia and rise even higher at the mention of her sisters. At the end she seems to contemplate it and then takes another swallow of beer, her nose wrinkling but the men laugh.

“Better do it again, Rivera!” someone calls.

And so he does. And then a third time so that everyone can join in with him, singing the whole song— and ah, that’s beautiful! The sound of everyone having a good time, singing about that poor _m_ _úsico_ on his way home. Héctor hopes the song reaches him somehow. That he finds his Sofia or something like his Sofia. Someone or something to give him purpose. He sings It the third time as he’s never sang anything before, the music seeming to run right under his skin and hang in the air like a blessing.

As the last chord is struck he grins at Imelda, chest heaving, ears burning.

She gives him a steady scrutinizing look, and then offers the beer.

“WAHEYY!” Half the cantina seems to cry in a way that buzzes the nylon strings of the guitar. He takes the beer and gulps it down, he’s so warm that it feels cool washing down his throat and into his gullet. He slams down on the counter with a satisfied breath and she laughs at him, eyes bright.

_Ay de mi, Imelda, Imelda_ _…_

If he leans forward… he wonders… Her head tilts up and, accident or not, her toes bump against his leg.

_“_ Keep going, Rivera!” someone shouts. She plants a hand on the center of his chest and gives him a slight push back. He grins, taking the message and moves back into the center of the room.

“Alright, _amigos_! What next?”

The requests fly thick and fast. He sings the songs everyone knows like: ‘ _El Rey_ ’ and ‘ _Cielto Lindo_ _’._ And then some of the local tunes too like: ‘ _Mujer de la Fuente_ ’ and ‘ _El Burro del Padre_ ’ which involves a very tired burro who keeps visiting the houses of widows. The _hombres_ like this one so much he sings it three or four times before he’s through, changing the name of the women and making it more ridiculous as he goes along just to hear them laugh. Well, just to hear Imelda laugh really and she does, tears coming to her eyes as she clutches her stomach. But her feet tap, and he can tell she wants to dance, too.

 After the fifth time, he shakes his head at cries of _otra_ and signals hopefully for another beer with two fingers lifted. The barman rolls his eyes and fills it. This time Imelda hands it to him without pause and _ah_ he feels as if he can sing a dozen more songs and dance from here to Mexico City. He takes a few good gulps and then offers her the rest of it. She licks her lips, giving him a strange challenging smile and then drinks the rest, to resounding cheers.

“They like you,” Héctor says leaning close to her so she can hear him.

“Who cares?” she says, but happily and he can see her cheeks are flush now, sweat beading on her skin.

“Want to dance?” He offers her his hand as subtly as he can, so others can’t see and try to badger her into it. Not that anyone could badger her into anything, but she’d be annoyed by the pressure.

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she says softly, fitting her hand in his. It’s all he can do not to yell his heart out, but he doesn’t because he needs to save his voice for this. Instead he leads her out to the floor, wondering how long the center spot has been cleared and who had opened the door and where all these people had come from and why the lanterns were lit.

Then decides it doesn’t matter.

The men cheer as they stop in the center of the floor and request songs and ask her to sing and to dance for them, but she kicks off her shoes and brushes off her skirt as if she doesn’t hear them.  He loves her. The emotion strikes him right between the eyes like a kick to the forehead and thunders down his spine and he doesn’t know where it comes from, but he uses it as he plays the intro to ‘ _Malague_ _ña Salerosa_ ’.

He begins to play it a bit slower than he would normally, just so she can get her feet under her and feel the rhythm. She kicks her shoes off She lifts her skirts and begins to sway, her eyes nearly closed as she focuses. Though when someone yelps excitedly the corner of her mouth quirks up in a smile.

“What beautiful eyes you have,” he starts to sing and hers fly open to catch his, surprised. He grins and continues without skipping a beat.

“What beautiful eyes you have,

beneath those two eyebrows

beneath those two eyebrows

what beautiful eyes you have!

 

They love to watch me

but if you don’t let them,

but if you don’t let them,

not even to blink…”

 

She smiles, showing the edges of her teeth and begins to turn, following him with her eyes until she can’t anymore. It’s alright because now he can see the dark crown of her hair and the way it sits against her neck and coils at the sweat there and pours that into singing the next line, right from the gut and high and longing, hitting a beautiful note he didn’t even know he could anymore.

 

“Graceful Malagueeeeeeeña~!”

 

The room erupts in cheers and whistles and when she turns back to him the flush has deepened on her face and her lips are parted, something like wonder in her eyes. Has he actually impressed her?! He begins to dance with her then, turning as she does, surprised how they can move with such a narrow space between them.

 

“I long to kiss your lips,

I long to kiss your lips,

Graceful Ma— Malagueña…..” He stutters as her fingertips brush over his lips. If she kisses him right now he’s going to explode, but she doesn’t. Merely smiles lets her hand fall away back to her skirts again. He swallows and speaks this time, squeaking on purpose.

“And to _tell you_ , beautiful girl.” A laugh rolls through the room and she laughs, too.   He begins to sing again:

 

“That you are stunning and bewitching,

that you are stunning and bewitching,

like the pureness of a rose,”

 

There is another verse about being poor, but he doesn’t sing it. What does it matter? They are all poor and Imelda wouldn’t look down on him because of it. He simply plays instead, stopping dancing so he could focus on her movements, picking up the tune, going faster, watching as she keeps up, her skirts flying. He wants someone else to play so he can dance with her. To hold her hands and spin them until they are both too dizzy to move.

He keeps playing until he can see her tiring than sings the last lines.

 

“I don’t offer you riches.

I offer you my heart,

I offer you my heart.”

 

She stops turning to watch him and then, suddenly, sings, her voice breathy and trembling but it pierces him through and through.

 

“I don’t offer you riches.

I offer you my heart,

I offer you my heart.”

 

Is she serious? He doesn’t know. But if she is. _Ay_ ~~

He tries not to think about it just now as he’s fairly sure — he’s fairly sure he’ll do something that she’ll get annoyed at but he’s not sure what. Instead he nods, trying to suggest they sing the last lines one more time. He’s not sure she’ll understand but when he sings, she does too.

 

“I don’t offer you riches.

I offer you my heart,

I offer you my heart,”

 

He can’t keep it back anymore.

“WAAHHAHAHHEEEEEYYY!” he _gritos_ throwing back his head.

“RRRRRRRIIIAAAAAAA!”

Her _grito,_ rising shrill and happy in the air nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He stares at her, breathing hard, and she smiles widely, teeth gleaming white.

She—

She—

“How do you expect me to do this?!” he says, laughing. How can he? How can anyone?!

“What are you talking about?” she says, eyes crinkling. 

“ _Ay de mi, Imelda Imelda~_ _”_ He sings as he plays it, swinging around in a hopeless circle. She smacks his arm but is still smiling.

The cantina roars around them.

 He can barely hear them. Can barely see anything but her, breathing heavily, sheened with sweat, more beautiful than anyone he’s ever known.  _Perfecto_. _Diosa._ This feeling…

This _feeling_ —

If he can -- 

“ _Otra!_ ” they cry. “ _Otra! Otra!_ ”

He laughs and raises his head, pushing sweat soaked hair out of his eyes. His hands are trembling a bit. His whole body is trembling. He’s not sure why but he feels he can easily be swept into another.

“No, _otra_ ,” Imelda says, taking his arm so she can toe into her shoes. “Let someone else play for a while.” She begins to pull him toward a table in the back. The crowd boos good naturedly.  Héctor lets himself be tugged along even though he feels bad for their disappointment.

“ _Ay_ Imelda, I can still play.

“You’re a _m_ _úsico_ , Héctor, not their pet,” Imelda says, pulling out a chair at a table in an out of the way corner. “Anyway, I’m hungry. Will you eat with me?

“I would _die_ for you,” he says, planting himself in the chair. Imelda smiles at him, stroking a hand along his jaw. He lifts his head and presses a warm kiss against her mouth which she sighs into and returns. His heart _sings_ even as the rest of him feels like a limp dishrag now that he’s sitting down. She leaves and he watches her go to the bar, her head high as she skirts among the cantina packed with men. She’s small but men part for her as if she’s a queen.

Well she is, he thinks to himself. How can anyone deny that? Just looking at her neck and the set of her shoulders the way her hips move. He could watch that all day. As if to speak to his mood, the _flojo_ _m_ _úsicos_ from the _fuente_ begin to play. It’s a tune he doesn’t immediately recognize, but it’s warm and filled with a low energy, perfect for shifting the mood. He feels infused with warmth, as if he’s just drunk a few tequilas, only the kind of tequila that makes you happy and content in your own skin.

His guitar case clunks on the table with a thud and an interesting jingle. Héctor jumps and glances up at Ernesto who soon takes a seat beside him.

“Well done,” he says blandly. “For a dancing monkey.”  He’s probably upset that he didn’t get a chance to sing. Well, Héctor can’t really blame him, but it’s not as if he doesn’t sing most of the time anyway.

“ _Lo siento_ , Nesto,” Héctor says, smacking his arm in a friendly way and gripping his bicep. “But hey, the evening is still young.”

“ _S_ _í._ ” A slow smile lifts his face. “Also, I told you, _amigo_. You can’t just leave our money lying around like that.” He pats the guitar case lovingly. 

“Oohh.” Héctor leans forward and undoes the latches, pushing it open. “ _Dios mio._ _”_ The yellow satin inside is littered with pesos and _centavos_ , shining like silver. It’s not their biggest day ever, but for just a few hours it’s amazing.

“Think if we went the whole day with that kind of energy!” Ernesto says, whacking his arm with the back of his hand. “Or if I was singing!” They begin to pull out the money in handfuls, piling it as usual onto the table between them. Once the case is empty, he sets the guitar in carefully, kissing the deep red wood body in gratitude before shutting the case and sitting down. Ernesto is busy sorting the money into three piles. The biggest going to Ruiz, of course, and then a second pile to Ernesto for his entertaining and then the rest was his which isn’t exactly fair, but he’d never really cared before except--

“What about Imelda’s share?”

Ernesto gives him a look.

“Imelda’s share?” he says flatly.

“ _S_ _í._ She sang, too.” And danced and— well— it’s partly because of her they’d gotten such a big crowd in the first place. She was funny and bold and smart and her just being here electrifies the place in a way even Ernesto can’t. Well not that he couldn’t but it is different. Ernesto is like a big brass bell, announcing his presence to everyone and entertaining them with rich tones. Imelda is like a wild thunderstorm, jabbing lightning and soaking everyone while laughing with thunder.

“Give it to her out of your share.”

His share should technically be bigger than Ernesto’s since he did all the work. He wants to say it. Wants to argue his point. He doesn’t know what he would do with the money. Get another shirt maybe. Another pair of shoes. Another ribbon. Buy something for Imelda that she would enjoy, even if it’s just a flower for her hair.

Of course, he’d have an even _greater_ share if they didn’t have to give so much to Ruiz all the time.

He reaches for the Ruiz pile and Ernesto moves it away.

“What are you doing?” he says, eyes narrowing. “These are the funds for our dream! You can’t just steal them.”

“Ruiz’s dream, you mean,” Héctor mutters. Ernesto rolls his eyes and scoops the money off the table.

“We’ve talked about this, Héctor. And you’ve seen it! He has the building! It’s almost done!”

_S_ _í,_ He’d seen it and _s_ _í_ it almost looked done, even if it had smelled dusty and more run down than something being built up. But then what? They play there every night instead? The same songs? And who says the request for money will stop there? Even by the railroad, a place like a restaurant or cantina or whatever can’t be cheap to keep up. Even if it _is,_ how do they know Ruiz isn’t lining his own pockets with it?

“ _Esc_ _úchame_ , amigo—” Héctor starts but before he can Ruiz himself speaks up behind him.

“ _Excelente! Exquisito!_ Bravo!” the man says, applauding. Héctor half turns, shaking his still damp bangs from his eyes. Ruiz is a portly man with a swooping mustache. He dresses like a European, whatever that means, with a gray vest and gray slacks and a gold watch chain swooping over his belly.

“You had a brilliant performance today, _compadre_ ,” the man continues. “Best I’ve seen yet.” He pulls up a chair and sits so it creaks beneath him. “And I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful follow up, De la Cruz.”

“We’ll see,” Ernesto says, glancing darkly at the _flojos_ still playing by the door. Ruiz waves a hand as if telling Ernesto to forget them and Héctor wonders what Ruiz means by that.

“And how do you feel, Rivera? Did you enjoy yourself?” Ruiz asks. “Loving the huge audience?”

“ _S_ _í...”_ And for the first time in a while he truly had. Though it wasn’t the crowd. He’s grateful to them, but most of it just came from playing, playing and singing songs he wrote and songs people loved and hearing them love it. Hearing and watching Imelda love it. Being able to sing and dance with her. Being able to just— do what he wanted without having to worry about anyone else.

“Your _Se_ _ñorita_ looked as if she were enjoying herself, too,” Ruiz says, sitting back in a self-satisfied way, sausage fingers closed over his stomach as he looks at the bar. Héctor looks too to see Imelda waiting, elbows on the bar as she leans against it, he can see the angles of her shoulder blades and wants to kiss them. He also wants to cover Ruiz’s eyes so he can’t look at them the way he is.

“Where did you find her, Rivera?” Ruiz asks. “Some street corner? You can tell me.”

“She’s the padre’s cook,” Ernesto says darkly and there’s the scrape of money across the table as he scoops his own pile into his palm. “From Santa Cecilia. _Cazafortunas,_ ” he says and Ruiz chuckles knowingly. Héctor snorts, feeling a hot tangle in his guts.

“ _S_ _í,_ she’s a _cazafortunas_ , even though she feeds us, mends my clothes, works harder than we do and, by the way, notice what I have here, Ernesto.” He gestures to his own small pile of money. “I couldn’t afford to keep a pig in mud.”

“But you can,” Ruiz says with a slow smile. “Once we get the restaurant finished— any day by now. You and Ernesto can make a name for yourselves. And your _Se_ _ñorita,_ too. Imagine her in jewels and furs.”

He shakes his head. He can’t imagine it. Doesn’t even know if she’d like that kind of thing. He doubts it somehow. At least not in the way Ruiz is offering, and anyway:

“That’s assuming we’ll get to keep any of the money we make,” he mutters.

“ _H_ _éctor_ ,” Ernesto snaps.

“You will,” Ruiz says.

“Will we?” He’ll believe it when he sees it.

“Stop it!” Ernesto hisses, kicking him sideways under the table. Héctor kicks him back.

“I’m just talking. And I’m thinking….” He takes a deep breath, watches Ernesto’s eyes. “… I’m not so interested in this idea after all.”

Because I have another idea, he tries to tell him with his face. A better way we can do this. Trust me. It’s clear Ernesto doesn’t. His black brows lower and his eyes narrow. Héctor will speak to him after Ruiz is gone then, when they are alone. Will explain to him that…

“Is that right?”  Ruiz says casually as if it doesn’t bother him. Héctor hesitates from saying it is. Before anyone can say anything, Imelda comes over with a tankard of beer in one hand and a plate of burritos in the other, oozing with greens and tomatoes and onions and chilis and guacamole. A delicious meaty smell is coming from them making his stomach growl.

“Ahh,” Ruiz says as Imelda comes to stand above him. “ _Gracias_ , _Se_ _ñorita._ ”

“They’re not for you,” she says, her voice harsh as a thunderclap. “Move, _por favor_.”

Ruiz is blinking up at her as if she’s suddenly spoken a foreign language.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Imelda says impatiently. “Move. _Vayamos._ ” She kicks his chair leg. Héctor stifles a laugh.

“ _Se_ _ñor_ Ruiz,” Ernesto says, in his soothing voice. “I’m sorry for her. She’s country bred.”

“ _Callete,_ De la Cruz,” Imelda says, nostrils flaring. “So are you.”

Héctor bites his lower lip so he won’t laugh this time. Ernesto would never forgive him.

“And you don’t apologize for me. You don’t own me.” She glares down at Ruiz. “This is my chair. If you want to sit here, get another.”

“I think… I will take my leave,” Ruiz says instead, the smile still on his face. “Reconsider, Rivera,” he says as he rises, giving Héctor a pat on the shoulder and a squeeze that almost hurts. “San Menas is a hard town to break into. So many _músicos_ from Santa Cecilia go home empty handed, or worse.” His smile widens. “That’s why we have to work together.”

He holds out the chair almost sarcastically for Imelda who sets the food and drink on the table before taking it out of his grip and sitting, brushing out the wrinkles of her skirts.

“Rivera,” Ruiz says. “De la Cruz.” And with a nod he walks off, greeting others in the crowd but heading toward the _flojo m_ _úsicos_ who seem happy to see him. Héctor scoots the plate so it’s in front of him, easy for both her and Ernesto to get to. He gives her a questioning look, as if asking if it’s okay but she is watching Ruiz and doesn’t notice. Well— maybe she won’t mind.

He takes a sip of the beer and is about to grab one of the burritos which look like shining heaven when Ernesto stands, chair screeching back against the floor and glowers down at them.

“Come talk with me, Héctor,” he says.

“Oh, come on, Ernesto, I’m _starving_.” He just wants to eat a burrito. Ernesto jerks his head toward the door and stalks out. Héctor sighs. Imelda squeezes his hand under the table.

“I won’t let anyone take it, Teto,” she says. “Go on.”

For some reason just hearing that makes his heart squeeze in his chest and another roll of warmth goes cascading through him. He can leave and she’ll protect it, he knows she will. He will have food when he returns, and beer, and his guitar and _dinero_ and Imelda. How wonderful is that? How blessed is he?

He has a million things he wants to tell her, to ask her, to plan with her and listen to her or even just sit in silence and watch her eat and drink, sharing what she bought for him.

Them.

But Ernesto needs him.

“ _Gracias._ _”_ He kisses her cheek, squeezes her hand back and then gets up, reluctantly heading for the door. He can see Ruiz with his arm around both the _flojo m_ _úsicos,_ talking to them too low for Héctor to hear. They’re both grinning, eyes shining, and Héctor wonders if he’s telling them about his _estupido_ restaurant.

Héctor shakes his head and heads out into the evening. It is mostly night now. Not late but almost full dark, only a thin pale line of light where the sun is yawning its good-byes. Ernesto is standing under a lantern, arms folded, looking angrier than Héctor remembers seeing him. Spotting him, Ernesto grabs his arm and yanks him into an alley.

“Ow!” Héctor says, tugging his arm away and rolling his shoulder. “What?”

“What?” Ernesto snaps. “You _dare_ ask me what? When you were _this_ close to ruining our dream?” He makes a pinching fingers gesture, showing just how close it was.

“Ernesto…”

“I told you she would ruin everything. You don’t see it because you’re too close. You’re young.” He says this smoothly as if forgiving him, resting hands on either of his shoulders. “All you see are nice lips and a nice pair of _pechitos._ What you _don_ _’t_ see is that your _cojones_ are in her hands and she can _crush_ them like ripe grapes.” He squeezes a hand into a fist and Héctor winces.  “But she will _ruin_ you, _amigo_. She will rip out your heart and dig her heels into it.”

She won’t. She probably won’t. In any case he understands why Ernesto is worried.

“Imelda is not Carmen.”

“All women are Carmen. You just don’t realize it.”

Héctor shakes his head. He gets that Ernesto was hurt and is still hurting and he knows how much this dream means to him and how annoyed he is at Imelda’s presence.

“Look, Imelda and Ruiz have nothing to do with one another.”

“Oh no? Don’t they?” Ernesto folds his arms. “Then why are you suddenly backing out?”

“I’m not doing anything suddenly,” Héctor says, annoyed. “I’ve told you more than once that I don’t like it.”

“It’s hard work that—”

“It’s our hard work that’s going into his pocket!” Héctor says, gesturing to the cantina. “Everything we do goes to him.”

“But the restaurant,” Ernesto grips his shoulders fiercely. “The audience! Our dream!”

“We can do it without him!” Héctor snaps. Ernesto shakes him.

“Why are you such an _idiota_ , can’t you see the opportunity is right in front of us? Is being _handed_ to us?! We just have to wait a little while longer! Why can’t you understand!”

“I’m sick of waiting!” Héctor pushes away from him, staggering a bit down the mouth of the alley. “You keep waiting for someone to hand you this dream, this golden moment! But you can’t wait for someone to hand it to you. You can’t trust someone who keeps promising and promising and returns only with dusty restaurants! You have to work for your dream. What we did tonight? We can do it elsewhere! We can go wherever we want! Even out of San Menas and we can do it _and_ keep the money from it! We don’t have to pay a _centavo_ to Ruiz!”

“Do you remember how we could barely do anything here when we arrived?” Ernesto snaps. “We were _starving._ We had to keep going back to Santa Cecilia like beaten dogs and everyone laughed at us—”

“No one laughed at us.”

“— And I won’t do that again. I am going to make it. Ruiz is the way—”

“He’s not!”

“He _is!_ ”

“Ernesto… I know that’s how we started off. I get it but…” And then he understands, something he hadn’t before. Those people hadn’t come because Ruiz had invited them. He hadn’t invited them to gather at the _fuente_ either when he was singing _Buena Suerte_. They had come because they’d wanted to hear. “… We have an audience now. We have people that want to listen. Over and over and over.”

“That’s a fluke.”

“It isn’t!” Why can’t he listen? Why can’t he understand that they don’t _need_ Ruiz as a crutch? That Ernesto is so much better than anything that _cabron_ can offer.

“I’m going home,” Ernesto says, straightening his _chaqueta_. “Think long and hard before you decide to ruin us.”

“Ernesto!” But he’s already walking away, being lost to the dimness. Part of Héctor wants to chase after him. To apologize. To say that of course he’ll work for Ruiz.

But he doesn’t want to.

He can’t cram himself back in that box.

With a sigh he pushes his hair back from his forehead and makes his way back into the cantina. Immediately he spots Imelda and finds her eyes on him. He smiles a bit and sits beside her, everything, even the money, untouched. As if she was waiting for him even to start eating. He takes a burrito and breaks it in half, offering her one. She smiles and takes it with both hands, smiling fondly. She brushes his hair with her fingertips and he can’t help but relax a bit at the touch.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” he murmurs. For Ernesto. For Ruiz. For not really showing her around anywhere again. For the future which isn’t going to be fun. She shakes her head.

“No. You have nothing to be _lo siento_ for.” She takes his chin again and kisses him. He kisses her back, opening his mouth a little, lingering there against her softness. She hums in a pleased way and he melts a little more inside, falling in the warm dizzying whirl of emotion.

The feeling so close he can reach out and touch it.

He brushes his fingertips over the back of her bare shoulders, feeling the skin there and she lets out a little gasp that makes heat sting his cheeks. More of that. So much more of that. But she pushes him way and he lets her, smiling at her.

“Want to do this again?” he asks, resting a hand over the back of her chair instead. She scoots a little closer, so they are thigh to thigh and murmurs.

“ _S_ _í_.”

The most beautiful word he's ever heard. He salutes her with his burrito half and bites into it.  _Ahhh_  it is as delicious as he had hoped it would be. The _flojo m_ _úsicos_ stand again and begin to play Santa Cecilia which makes Héctor startle a little. They don’t sing it but just hearing those chords coming from someone else and so unexpectedly sends a strange thrill through him. Imelda rests her head on his shoulder with a happy sigh of her own and for that single shining moment he feels like the luckiest man in the world. 

 


	9. Lost in Darkness, Lost in Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the only way to confront fear is to crash into it head on. Imelda is determined to let go of her past and face the future, music and all. It's overwhelming, but she's strong and no matter the weight of what she's done, she will stand against it without any help. 
> 
> She doesn't need it, after all. 
> 
> She's fine....

The car hummed with electrified silence. Imelda sat in the front, hands on her lap, fingers laced as she stared straight ahead, chin lifted. The Land of the Dead rose around and above and below them, colorful blinking lights, festive in red and green among the muted purples and reds. It truly was a magical place during _Las Posadas_.

Despite the beauty around them, she could feel her _familia_ watching _her_ instead. The weight of four gazes from the back seat bore down on her spine and, it seemed to her, Julio was watching her out of the corner of his eye as they made their way down the busy thoroughfare. It didn’t surprise her. Things were changing, had been changing, had changed.

 

First and foremost weighing on everyone’s mind tonight, she imagined, was the gala they were attending. Oh, they went to banquets and _fiestas_ during _Las Posadas,_ of course. They still had a business to run, which meant keeping contacts and relations with other business people; not to mention extended _familia_. Sometimes at one of these banquets or _fiestas,_ they encountered music.

Tonight they were going to a gala where music was the main point of going. Music and dancing.

Perhaps it was too much all at once. But it was the Rivera way to go headlong into hardship and fight their way through to the other side. It was about time she remembered that. It was about time to remind herself, and them, to stop being so afraid of such a simple thing as music.

She was not afraid.

In fact, since coming to that understanding last week or so, nothing had upset her. Perhaps nothing more _could_ upset her. She had figured out Héctor’s place in her _familia_ , had come to accept the consequences of that, and the loss that would spring from it. What else was there to be angry about? She had never felt this kind of calm, not that she could remember.

 Perhaps it was _la aceptatci_ _ón._ The final stage of mourning one’s own life. The understanding that everything terrible had already happened and there was no more to worry about. Some said it was just one step toward the Final Death, but Imelda didn’t mind it. It was a balm. A _santuario._ Nothing could bother her. Not the ever more frequent requests and commissions from _m_ _úsicos_ , not the way people had started to recognize her on the street, not even the little shrines that people had started to set up outside the walls of the _hacienda_ for some reason.

Maybe her calm was what worried her _familia_ the most.

Her poor little _familia._ She glanced at them in the rear-view mirror with pride and sympathy. They all looked wonderful in their fancy dress. The twins, _guapo_ in suits, bracketing Rosita and Victoria in blue and pale green respectively with flowers in their hair. _Ay_. So beautiful. Julio looked quite handsome too with the white hat and crisp white shirt with a black string tie around his throat.

“It will be fine,” she said to their unspoken worries. “We are going to go, and we are going to have a good time.” Her voice was serene, surprising even her. She watched them exchange glances with one another, and then back at her and then away or down as if not wanting to argue. They would see. They would come to understand.

And in the Rivera way she would help ease them into this.

“Julio,” she said. “Turn on the radio.”

“Heh?” He looked at her uncertainly. In the back seat, eyes widened. Imelda let out a breath. She’d do it if she knew which of the knobs to press.

“Turn it on,” she said, gesturing with absolute patience. Julio looked at her as if she was a rattlesnake. She was about to start pressing buttons herself when he reached over and switched on a knob.

Immediately, music filled the car and a woman in a low sweet voice crooned:

“A feeling so close you can reach out and touch it. I never knew I could want something so much--”

She turned it off so hard the knob came off in her hand. Gritting her teeth she threw it to the floor at her feet and folded her arms. How dare that-- How could he always-- Why did it always--

_Why that song?_

Why always his?!

But she was fine. She was perfectly fine. She was calm. In a _santuario_ of peace. Slowly she unclenched her hands and tried to breathe.

The silence in the car wasn’t as electrified now. It was muffled. Uncomfortable. Julio cleared his throat.

“Are… you sure this is a good idea?”

“ _S_ _í._ ” It was fine. It was perfectly fine. She had just been unprepared.

“But…” Julio continued, slowing down for a red light. “You know…ehh that music seems… pretty popular right now. I bet there’s going to be a lot of it at the gala, so…” He trailed off when she held up her hand, only emitting a tiny sigh. There are other similar sounds from the back seat and in a glance she could see their faces and read their moods— which aside from Rosita were all variations of distressed and irritated. Rosita just looked distressed, hands on her lap as she thumbed the corners of the gala invitation.

“We have to get through this,” she told them, solemnly. “Sooner or later. That _m_ _úsico_ —” She closed her eyes. “Héctor. Is going to be part of our lives and so is music.” There, decision made. She lifted her chin, felt the decision in her breast bone, iron in her spine.

The light turned green. The car trundled forward once more, Julio’s grip shifting against the wheel. They came to a tunnel under one platform or another, the lights a hazy gold, painted skulls grinning out from either side of the tiled walls with painted flowers in their eyes.

“But it’s not for him that we’re doing this,” Imelda said, to make it clear. “Nor ourselves.”

It was for something greater. Something she couldn’t even explain.

No…

No, she could explain.

It was for Coco. To give her a bright future as she had brightened their pasts and lingered in their memory as a beautiful daughter, a kind niece, a wise sister, a loving wife, a doting mother. They owed it to her to do their best, and this gala was the best opportunity to start; to break the walls that had formed around their hearts so that they could make something new as a _familia._

Painful as it might be.

Imelda shook her head and looked forward again. The light turned green. They came from under an overpass and her breath caught in her throat. Julio slowed down and she could feel everyone craning forward, looking up. A dancer had been painted on the side of some building or another welcoming people to the Arts District. She was a beautiful young _esqueleto_ , with long dark braids and flowers in her hair on a background of sunny yellow. It was like a miracle. A blessing. A sign sent by whatever and whoever pulled the strings of the universe.

A car behind them honked rudely and Julio startled, jerking them all forward. Imelda felt a burst of irritation at the impatient _cabron_ behind them. She cupped her hands once more, imagining the patience she needed to have, resting in the middle of her palms like a small, fragile bird. It was going to be difficult…

But it was necessary.

And with her _familia_ she could endure anything...

o.o.o.o.o.o

These were the thoughts she tried to keep in mind as they parked in the garage attached to the Manuelita Arriola Convention Center. Cars were parked, packed like in regimented lines like cattle going toward the slaughter. The brakes squeaked a bit as Julio maneuvered them into their own space and then turned off the engine. For a moment they all sat in the silence, No one wanted to get out. Imelda indulged in the fantasy of turning around, heading back home to a nice quiet night just like a thousand others.

Coco would understand. Perhaps they could wait for her to arrive. Perhaps her presence could help ease the passage as it eased so much else. She considered it, until she realized the strange white slice of building she was staring at in the gap between the platforms was De la Cruz’s tower.

“Tch.” She undid her seatbelt. “ _Vayamos._ ”

Her _familia_ piled out of the car slowly, reluctantly. Imelda waited until Julio opened the door for her before taking his hand and getting out herself, brushing off her skirts, making sure the poinsettia was still in place in her hair. Turning, she saw the others were still uncertain, shoulders bunched.

“It’s not a funeral,” she said, adjusting Julio’s string tie and glancing fingers over the enamel in the center of it; a wingtip with a small diamond of turquoise in it. Victoria had gotten it for his hundred and second birthday.

“It’s a _fiesta._ _”_ She plucked lint off the shoulder of Rosita’s dress and then took the dog-eared invitation from her. “You are allowed to have fun.”

“It’s also fine if you do not.” She brushed a strand of hair from Vitoria’s forehead and stroked her cheekbone. Beautiful girl. “But give it a try, for your first one.” Victoria cringed faintly in a way all to reminiscent of her _flojo_ _abuelo_ and Imelda tried to pretend not to notice. The twins were next and though they were currently standing shoulder to shoulder, they had barely talked to one another the past few days.

“I’ll meet you by the entrance,” she said the others, standing in front of the twins so they wouldn’t mistake what she intended. Rosita started ahead, then stopped uncertainly as Julio and Victoria remained behind, uncertain. Imelda flicked her hands, shooing them off and Julio held out his hand for Victoria who took it, and father and daughter started toward the entrance, collecting Rosita along the way.

Imelda watched them go with pride and a knot in her throat she couldn’t explain, before turning back to the twins. Filipe had his hands caged at his chest, while Oscar’s were limp at his sides. They had swapped lapel pins at some point too, she couldn’t help but notice. They did this sometimes. She was never sure why but had the feeling it was some kind of test to themselves, to the world.

She held out her hands for theirs. They didn’t take them so she rested her hands on their shoulders instead. Her beautiful boys, all grown up and then some. Born at the same time and died at the same time and had opened their arms same time when she’d ran to them in the Department of Family Affairs, flinging herself at them. She had missed them so much.

It hurt to see them suffer for something she’d started. She who had pulled them away from their lives of success. Who had kept them in the tiny town of Santa Cecilia rather than Guadalajara. A place where Filipe couldn’t be entirely himself and Oscar had lost his Isabella and nearly his own life in the bout of influenza that had swept through the community. They had worked so hard for her and given up so much and there was nothing she could do to repay them.

“I don’t know what you’re fighting about,” she said. Filipe looked away.

“We--” Oscar started. She put her fingers against his mouth.

“But I can guess. _Escúchame_ , _cari_ _ños_ ,” She puts a hand on either of their jaws, remembering suddenly when she could do this without reaching up, remembering how all they’d had was each other’s company, sleeping in the same bed under a dusty moon beam. A time before Héctor and Santa Cecilia, where life had been much simpler.

“We are too old and too dead to be haunted by the past.” And she had spent too long on it, too long trying to avoid thinking of the past, too long trying to hide from it. She would not let them fall into the same trap she had. “I’m not saying you have to forgive or forget- but don’t let it drive you apart, _por favor._ Filipe. Oscar.” She looked into their eyes as she said their names. They looked startled for a moment, then shared a faint smile with one another. Filipe’s hands dropped, and Oscar folded his in front of himself.

“ _S_ _í,_ ” Filipe said.

“Might as well,” Oscar said nudging his brother’s arm. “I was beginning to forget how handsome I looked.”

“ _Oye, oye,_ I’m the cute one,” Filipe said.

Imelda smiled indulgently, glad that was over with, and began to head to the rest of her _familia_ standing by the exit of the garage. She would take her own advice as well. The past was the past. It was apart. It was literally dead. Another time. Another world. Another place. It couldn’t touch her. The music was a pain to someone else. Someone she didn’t know anymore and could never be again. Even _his_ music. Especially his music. And _that_ man, too. She glared defiantly at what of De la Cruz’s tower she could see and then turned away from it.

She picked up her pace, enjoying the sound of her boots striking the ground and echoing in the air around her. The doors of the elevator slid open the moment she reached it and she was soon snug in the otherwise terrifying box with her _familia_. She read over the invitation once more, curious about it.

_La Familia Rivera  
_ You Are Cordially Invited To:  
The 403rd Annual Craftsmen and Jewelers _Gala de Navidad_  
_Buena Suerte_

 

There was no indication as to _why_ they were invited. True, she’d petitioned to join the Guild thirty years or so ago, but they had never replied and eventually she’d decided it wasn’t worth it; so, for an invitation to come out of the blue was odd to say the least. The last line made her breathe a laugh. _Buena Suerte._ They would need all the _Buena Suerte_ they could get to survive this night.

The elevator let out a pleasant chime and Imelda lead her family down the short hallway, following the signs to the gala. It wasn’t long before she heard the music. _Not_ anything she knew immediately, which was a relief, but she knew that music would come eventually, and she was ready. Another short hallway and they came to a security guard standing in front of a closed doorway.

“Invitation?” said the man, extending a slender hand. Imelda handed it over. He looked at it for far longer than it took to read it, then nodded to them. “ _Uno momento, por favor_.” Before ducking through the door.

They waited and waited more. Imelda tapped her foot, hands on her hips. What was taking them so long?

“Oh, I wonder what’s wrong,” Rosita said, sounding worried.

“Maybe they changed their minds,” Julio said.

“They better not have,” Imelda growled. Even if they had, they would just have to deal with it. She had decided to take her _familia_ to the gala despite everything she knew might come from it and she refused to back down from the path she’d started on.

She was about to burst in through the door and demand to know what was going on when it opened and the security guard ushered them in. Inside there was a trestle table, decorated with candles and poinsettias and a large guilt book for signing in, she supposed. Two men were standing in front of it talking in hushed voices and beyond it, open doors that lead into the ballroom where the music came pouring out in sweet curling sounds.

She lifted her head, clenched her hands in her skirts, let out a breath, tried to relax.

The security guard cleared his throat and the men stopped chattering and turned to them, smiles plastered on their faces.

“Good Evening, _Se_ _ñoras, Señores,_ welcome to the Gala!” said the man with the emerald tie pin. “I am so glad you can come. I am Esteban, and this is my colleague _Se_ _ñor_ Fernandez-Sotelo.”

The other man nodded with a wincing grin.

“And may I say…,” the emerald tie pin said, eyes darting among them nervously before he finally crossed toward them in two quick steps. “That it’s wonderful to meet you _Se_ _ñor_ Rivera,” he said, taking Julio’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Ah…you are?”

“ _S_ _í_! Of course! Just to have someone of your talent here is an unexpected gift!”

“It…it’s no problem!”

What… was going on? Imelda put a hand on her hip. Why would they have heard of Julio? He _was_ talented but… Wait. Imelda looked at the banner hung in between the doors which displayed _Buena Suerte_ in silver letters with notes around it.

No…

No, it _couldn_ _’t_ be.

Weren’t there _any_ other _m_ _úsicos_ in the Land of the Dead?!

“He’s a _zapatero_ ,” Imelda said. Emerald tie pin stopped mid-shake, smile frozen on his face.

“ _Perd_ _ón?”_

“He is a _zapatero_ ,” she repeated, folded her arms, tried to keep her patience. “He makes shoes, not music.”

“I see,” emerald tie pin said standing while his _compadre_ groaned. “But surely your husband will be along shortly.”

“My--” She closed her eyes and continued, looking the man in the eyes as he loomed over her. “He is not.” And if he showed his face here after she’d said that, so help him… “And he won’t be. And I resent you inviting me in expectation of him coming.”

“Well, _Se_ _ñora_ ,” emerald tie pin said, wringing his hands. “You _are_ _…._ ” He looked at her and gave a nervous chuckle. “Married?”

She refused to answer that question, raising a brow bone instead, telling him to go ahead and dig deeper if he dared. It was quite a rude assumption to make, especially in the Land of the Dead. He cleared his throat. “Well we would be honored to have you instead, _Se_ _ñora._ After all, your performance that night was _riveting_. I was not there, but _Se_ _ñor_ Fernandez-Sotelo--”

“Want me to do what?” she said, cutting him off to forestall the strange emotion she felt prickling through her at the words-- like embarrassment, like pride, like _yearning._ She crushed it ruthlessly under her boot. “And why?” She said before the man could speak. This was a sudden turn of events. Too sudden. They’d only gotten the invitation a week or so ago, but this kind of planning took months, she knew.

“Well-- it…. It has always been the _honor_ of the Jewelers and Craftsman’s Guild to invite the most celebrated of guests to host our Gala…” As emerald tie pin went on, Imelda had a sneaking suspicion of what this was really all about.

“You invited De la Cruz, didn’t you.”

“An invitation rescinded, I assure you, _Se_ _ñora_ ,” emerald tie pin said, holding up his hands. “As well as increased security.”

That surprised her. It nearly shocked the irritation out of her. That he be barred from anywhere.

 _How far you_ _’ve fallen, Ernesto._

The thought came unbidden as a whisper in the back of her mind and she suddenly felt ice in her bones. The implications of everything came roaring up like a great wind once again and she slammed the shutters closed on it and bolted the door.

The point was--!

The point was…

What was it?

Oh, _s_ _í._ That.

“So, you are short an entertainer, so you thought you would invite--” My husband, was on the tip of her tongue. She forced it back to where it belonged. She didn’t want to say Héctor either. And _Se_ _ñor_ Rivera? She’d never get through it without laughing. “-- _Him_ without any warning of what you intended him to do?”

“We are a bit at the end of the rope. Surely you understand, our prestige…”

“He is not your fall back nor your dog to call as you like.” She raised her chin. “Nor am I.” And she lifted her skirts and walked past him into the ballroom. They had been invited under misleading circumstances, but that was not going to stop her from putting her plan into action.

She forced herself to get at least to one of the faux marble supports that lined the room, enough for her _familia_ to gather behind her; then she had to take a breath. It was another world. A world in which they did not belong. The decorations were silver and white and green; silk bunting hung from the columns and in the center of the floor, couples danced in outfits that made her feel underdressed. Jewels winked in the hair and ears, and on the neck and wrists of women and from the tie pins of men, and everyone was wearing something worth at least half what they gave for the car, if not as much. More than that, there was a live orchestra playing on a stage in front of the room and she watched the bows sliding over strings of beautiful violins, the dark wood of the basses, the gleaming shine of the trumpets--

She glanced away.

This was not their world and so what if it wasn’t?

She had broken through the gates the world had tried to trap her in many times and this would not be the last. She would not be ashamed of who she was and where she came from and she knew that her _familia_ felt the same. Yet she also knew she’d have to be the one to set the example. So she would have to move away from the support and…and dance. Only she couldn’t move. She felt bolted to the floor. Frozen in place.

“Well… uh…” Julio said from somewhere behind her. “Rosita?”

“What?” Rosita said. Then: “Oh, _s_ _í_ , of course!”

Her _familia_ came around her then, Rosita on Oscar’s arm and Victoria standing beside her Papá, clutching her arm, glancing away.

“We’re… going to go dance, Mamá Imelda,” Julio said. They were all like nervous birds, ready to take flight at the first sign of danger. She wanted to encourage them, to tell them they were fine, and this was what she hoped, and she was proud, but all she could do was nod permission. There was another exchange of glances, some silent conversation that Imelda couldn’t even guess the meaning of. What a web her _familia_ had between them around her; like they were flies trying to negotiate their way around a spider.

Rosita and Oscar were the first to go out on the floor, though only a short distance. They were tentative around one another, hesitant. They would not meet one another’s eyes. Instead Oscar spoke with one hand that settled on her waist, and she responded by leaning in, their hands clasping and suddenly they were dancing; as if they had all their lives, as if they had been waiting for this moment even if they couldn’t look at one another; like embarrassed young lovers.

She had never been able to look away.

The thought stung, and she brushed it aside, crushing it to dust.

She shifted her gaze to Julio and Victoria. Her poor little _pollita_ seemed awkward and out of place, straight as a broom next to her much shorter Papá. He smiled up at her, telling her something Imelda couldn’t hear over the music, and took her hand. Slowly and patiently he lead her into the dance; though it took him a moment to find his feet; it wasn’t long before they were moving in step. Despite the differences in height, or perhaps because of it, they looked wonderful. Julio found a way to bring out Victoria’s natural grace and she trusted her Papá to listen to his direction.

It reminded her of a time when she’d caught them in the courtyard, dancing to the very faint music coming from Mariachi Plaza. Victoria had been very young, perhaps no more than four, and had stood on his shoes, holding onto his hands and laughing. She had stopped it of course. Had slammed the door and startled them both so that Victoria had cried out and clung to her Papá’s leg and he had been a heart stopping moment from kneeing her in the throat.

What a horrible, selfish, thing to have done, she thought, looking at her folded hands. It had reminded her too much of when Coco was a little girl and dancing on Héctor’s feet, his elegant hands holding her small perfect ones. She had been terrified that Julio would follow his lead, would leave and break Coco’s heart or perhaps even take them all away from her. Would go out on that wild, wonderful, dangerous exhausting road. But maybe they should have gone. Though _after_ Coco had had Elena, Imelda thought. And after both girls were old enough to survive strenuous trips. Then, maybe, they could have gone and been happy.

She would have hated it, of course, and railed against it but—

Filipe touched her shoulder then, distracting her, pulling her from her thoughts. He gestured, as if asking if she wanted to dance and she shook her head, smiling faintly. No… She couldn’t bring herself to. Just the thought of it…

 Though she had danced that night on the stage, the thrill and the passion of it racing like a fire through her bones— her voice rising high, the song pouring from her, the excitement of dodging Ernesto’s guards to secure the one thing that mattered.

 _Ay_ _…_ What a wonderful moment.

And seeing him there playing for her and running into his arms just like nothing had ever changed….

And because her guard was down, Ernesto— De la Cruz had nearly taken Miguel’s precious life.

Perhaps music was just a curse for her, she thought. She had wanted to make it a curse for everyone else because she couldn’t bear it but now— now she would. Not dancing- no. She wouldn’t subject Filipe to that. He deserved to find someone handsome of his own out there among the flashing jewels if he could.

But she would accept it. All of it. Throw open the doors to whatever came her way. Even if every song was one of his, she would let it come. Her breast was stone, her spine was steel, calm sat in the center of her that nothing could disturb. As if to test her, the music faded and those on the floor stopped dancing to applaud. After a moment emerald tie pin stepped up on the stage, smiling broadly.

“I thank you all for coming tonight,” he said, waving to another applause. “As you all know, it is our tradition at this time to introduce our special guest.” He seemed to glance her way and she narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to. “So tonight, it is my deepest honor to humbly present…” He spread his hands, rings flashing on his fingers.

“All of you! You fine upstanding jewelers and craftsmen who have made this guild what it is today. For that, I thank you from the depths of my heart. _Muchos gracias._ ” He bowed and the applause seemed even louder this time. It was a nice save, Imelda had to admit, and she respected the man for it—though she couldn’t quite forgive him for what he had tried to do.

“We’ve had another outstanding year,” emerald tie pin continued. “And I know we, some more than others, are worried about the upheaval next year will bring.” A laugh. Some in-joke, Imelda supposed. “To that end, all we can offer to help things along is the hope, the prayer, the blessing of _Buena Suerte._ _”_

There was more applause at this as emerald tie pin stepped off the stage.

She closed her eyes as the music began. _Buena Suerte_ had changed, at least she thought it had. While she could still hear Adelita under it, it was accentuated here, slowed down there and some _idiota_ had turned it into a waltz. The memory of it was old, crumbled like an old photograph, shred into pieces. She couldn’t gather it to her. When had she first heard it? Was it in a _posada_? No, a restaurant. In Campeche? Metztli? Cuidad Pájaro?

…No.

San Menas. Of course.

Beyond that, she didn’t know, couldn’t see. The more she tried to remember the details, the more it slipped away from her as if it had happened to someone else— or had just been part of a story she’d heard. But, oh, what did it matter. The past was dead and gone. She had killed it when she no longer believed in him, had strangled it from her life until nothing was left but the bitter aftertaste.

But now she faced it, faced all of it, lifted her chin even as the music swirled around her. He had left her because she hadn’t been enough and who could blame him? It was what it was, and so she would simply correct all her mistakes and not care. Nothing would hurt. Nothing would sting. She would not allow that any more of a foot hold in her life.

“ _Perd_ _ón, Señora,_ “a man said. She opened her eyes, annoyed. It was _Se_ _ñor_ whoever, emerald tie pin’s _compadre._

“No,” she said automatically as he began to say:

“Would you care to d—ah…”

Dance? She certainly did not want to dance with him. She didn’t want to dance at all.

Which was why she should. She would face the pain and overcome it until she could feel nothing at all.

“ _S_ _í._ ” She said as he turned away. He turned back, a hopeful look on his face. “I will dance,” she added just in case it wasn’t clear. He offered his arm and she didn’t want to take it, but she did, letting herself be lead where everyone was staring at her; but what did she care? These people meant nothing to her.

The _compadre_ _’s_ hand settled clumsily on her lower spine and it was all she could do not to smack him. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder, hating it, and how their other hands should clasp for this style of dance, hated the faint vibrations of bone against bone and the way he kept grinning at her as if he was afraid she would bite him if he stopped. She was tempted to bite him now.

“You’re very graceful,” he said.

“ _Gracias._ ” She tried to refocus, looking at him. He... Was fine. An _esqueleto_ just like everyone else, with brown scrollwork on his cheeks. He looked from side to side.

“I enjoyed your _La Llorona._ It was transcendent.”

“ _Gracias_.” That was another thing better off forgotten. Forgotten and buried. That fire belonged to someone else.

“Do …you sing much?” he asked.

“No.”

He said nothing more after that.

After what seemed like a thousand years, the dance ended and he scuttled off like a frightened crab. Imelda put her hands on her hips. So she’d danced. Well now what. It hadn’t felt any better. She hadn’t even gotten a sense of accomplishment, just the strange feeling she needed a bath.

Perhaps she just needed to dance again. She scanned the floor for someone who looked available. It didn’t take her long to spot a younger looking _esqueleto_ with gleaming white bone and thick black hair. He looked proud and strong and happy to dance which was why she didn’t understand why he’d scuttled off as well when the song ended.

By the time her third partner excused himself mid-dance, Imelda was starting to realize this wasn’t working as she’d hoped. Not to mention killing the enjoyment for everyone else.

Fine.

That was just fine. She… She’d come, and she’d listened, and danced, and more importantly her _familia_ had danced and seemed happy. If she stayed, she wondered if she would ruin that too. No. No she refused to ruin it. She glanced around until she spotted Filipe talking to a small knot of men who scattered like pigeons for some reason when she approached.

“I’m going home,” she tried to say calmly. He winced a little. She had not done well.

“Do you want me to gather the others?”

“No. Let them stay. I will take a _tranv_ _ía_.” There was a stop near here, she thought she saw. Filipe watched her. There was some emotion in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read.

“Imelda…” he said, and the use of her name without Mamá in front of it touched something dangerous and sad in the core of her. She stifled it as best she could, pushing it down and back. He seemed to want to add something else, but she held up a hand.

“ _Por favor_ , Filipe, just do as I say.”

He sighed and nodded, and she touched his cheekbone gratefully before leaving the room, keeping as much to the shadows as she could and not looking back. The music faded as she went back out into the hallway and soon she could only hear the ringing of her own boots on the floor, echoing.

What an angry stride, she couldn’t help but notice.

The further the way she got, the more she realized how ridiculous she must have looked out there. Dancing like a fool and hating it in front of everyone. She clenched her hands in her skirts. Well never mind. She had failed this time, but she would succeed the next. Now she would go home and close her eyes and hope for a few hours of sweet nothingness until she had to face her _familia_ again.

o.o.o.o.o.o

_The streets of the Arts District were deserted, and a fine rain had started to fall. Weather was unusual, though not unheard of and in many ways, Imelda enjoyed it. She could feel the drops running down her bone and could almost remember what wet felt like. She picked up her skirts from the puddles that were starting to form on curb sides and on the sidewalk, reflecting the brilliant colors of the city above her and the murky mysterious sky. She wanted to feel calm by now, she’d wanted to feel at peace, for la aceptatción to wash over her so that nothing could touch her, not the past, not the present, not the future full of worry. Now the anger had just dulled down to something low and simmering in the pit of her throat._

_It didn’t help that the closest tranvía stop was right in front of Ernesto’s tower and she had no choice but to look at it as she approached. She hated it, the way it thrust rudely in the air and disrupted everything around it. It looked like a fortress or a prison. She could imagine him pacing around in it, glancing his fist against the walls._

_She wondered where he was._

_She didn’t want to know._

_The tranvía stop was too far._

_A wind blew from somewhere, curling through the empty streets, splashing rain in her eyes and stirring her skirts. Something skittered behind her like the scrabbling of tiny claws on stone. She looked over her shoulder. The street was empty. An air tranvía glided up into the mist. It felt like eyes were on her, like someone was watching._

_Let them watch._

_She clutched her skirts and continued onward. The tranvía stop didn’t get any nearer though Ernesto’s tower did, filling the sky. She wanted to topple it over, to dig her fingers into the mortar and tear it apart brick by brick.  Even that wouldn’t be enough, nor change what had happened._

_The skittering came again. There was the clack of a mouse trap like the sound of snapping bone which made her start. There was a shadow on the wall of the alley. Or maybe it was just darkness. She picked up her pace, the rain driving against her bone like little needles with the force of the wind. There was a posada nearby, old and shabby with damaged shutters and familiar in a way that filled her with dread. She did not want to go in. Would rather go anywhere else than in that place, even to Ernesto’s tower, but the streets were starting to flood and if the water got too high she’d never make it back to the hacienda in time._

_Some garbage bins crashed nearby woodenly. She was inside before she knew it, shutting the door behind her. Inside it was silent, not even the drumming of the rain, not even the whisper of a breath. The tables were all full, but everyone was sleeping or dead, living and esqueleto alike draped over tables and the dusty piano and collapsed on the small empty stage._

_She went up the stairs, the back way, in perfect silence, her heart wrenching at every step in the closed darkness._

_Second floor._

_Third floor._

_Sunlight streaming under the doorway._

_Her hand pushed the door open without her, bone white against the dark wood and her heart squeezed, taking her breath with it. Their room. The pale red shutters, the vanity he flowers in a vase, now roses, now cempasuchil. Héctor lying on their bed with the carved headboard, back to her. She took in the fall of his hair, his angled shoulders, narrow waist, lean hips. She was pulled closer, rested hand on his shoulder, feeling the soft give of flesh under her fingers. Heart in her throat she turned him over._

_His head lolled against the pillow, eyes open and unseeing, foam bubbling at his lips._

_Imelda covered her mouth, the shriek muffled between her fingers as she backed up, tripping over nothing, ice crackling through her bones. No! No, no, no…_

_“Are you so surprised, Imelda?” Ernesto said from behind her and she whirled, knocking her shoulder against the wall. He was watching her from the doorway, hair wild, eyes bright in the darkness of his sockets, sunlight flashing off the white of his charro suit._

_“This is your fault.  This is your doing.”_

_It isn’t! She wanted to say. But her voice was stuck in her throat as if only the truth could be spoken._

_“Oh, but it was.” Ernesto sat on the bed beside Héctor, lovingly stroking a hand through his hair. “I may have killed him, but you destroyed him. You took away everything he meant, everything he could be, tied him down so he couldn’t breathe and then, selfishly, refused to support his dream.” He had been looking at Héctor fondly as he spoke before looking at her. “Am I wrong?”_

_No. Imelda clutched at her throat. She hadn’t wanted him to go. She hadn’t wanted to lose him to the world. Hadn’t wanted Coco to lose him. Knew that what he could find out there was so much better than she could ever provide. She had hated him for it and a part of her still did, but was that for Coco’s sake or just for her own?_

_A golden light began to grow under Héctor’s skin then, behind his eyes, beautiful and terrifying. No… She shook her head, wanting to move to take him from that man, but he cringed, his lips pulling back from his teeth, his neck arching off the bed._

_“Coco,” he rasped, turning those dead eyes on her, reaching for her with a shaking hand. “Por favor, Imelda, I just want to see my niña.”_

_“But you can’t, amigo,” Ernesto said with a sincere frown that made her shudder, running a thumb along the shell of his ear. “You’ve been forgotten.” He smiled. Gripped the ear. Pulled._

_“Don’t!” Imelda cried. There was nothing underneath! If he did that, then Héctor would—!_

_“I told you she would crush you,” Ernesto whispered, pulling harder, golden cracks began to appear under his jaw, Héctor cried in pain. Imelda threw herself at Ernesto with all her might. Bed sheets tangled in her legs and she fell to the floor hard. There was something soft in her hand. She looked down. She was holding Héctor’s face._

_Imelda screamed._

 

…. And woke with a start, heart slamming in her ears, the darkness swirling around her.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe! She wrenched herself upward, clawing at her ribcage, other hand burrowed in the blanket, trying to get the air in as her heard squeezed painfully. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t cry for help.

 _She didn_ _’t want to die alone_.

There was a distant roar and the shutters slammed open letting in a gust of wind. Something went clattering across the floor.

“What is _wrong_ with you, you _gato loco!_ “

Héctor…

She pressed both hands over her mouth, trying to keep the dragging wheeze inside, she didn’t need to breathe, didn’t have a heart. It was fine, it was fine, it was fine.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Héctor said. “I don’t—” A Pause. “Imelda?”

Ah, he could see her! She didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Couldn’t allow anyone to see her like this. She heard him come closer and buried her face in her hands, willing him to leave. Wanting him to leave. He couldn’t see her… What if...

“Are you alright?” His fingers brushed her shoulder and she jerked away. She didn’t want him to touch her either. She didn’t want anyone to touch her ever again.

 There was a silence.

“Did something happen?” he asked. She shook her head.

 “Did you have a nightmare?”

She didn’t want to nod. To say yes. Even if she had what did it matter? How dare she let herself become so undone by it! There was another silence, this one longer and she almost wondered if he’d gone altogether.

“Should I….” He took in a little breath. “Sing for you?”

“No!” she slammed her fists against her legs, and out of the corner of her eye she could see him cringe, hold up his hands. He used to sing to her back then, but now, how could she even ask him? How could she even want him to? She had heard the cringe in his voice at the question as if he didn’t want to either. They were too far apart for that. There was an ocean between them, a world, and it could never be bridged.

And how sad— how _sad_ for a man who breathed music and had it in every beat of his heart to push it away from himself. She had done this. Had crushed him. Hadn’t the ability to set it right.

But she would figure out a way. She _would_.  She just had to be strong. She lifted her head, hearing a faint grinding as her fingers bit into the heel of her hand.

“ _Gracias_ for coming,” she said, her voice tight. “But I don’t need you. You can go.”

“Ahh… _S_ _í_. Okay,” he said. “Should I get someone else for you?”

“No.” No one was home, she didn’t think, and even if they were she didn’t want them to see this any more than she wanted him to.

“Imelda, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Fine enough.”

“ _Ay_ ,” he said. “You’re so stubborn. You know, it’s okay to rely on your _familia_.”

She turned her gaze to look at him.  That _he_ of all people would say that. He cringed immediately, looking away from her.

“I mean.” He gestured vaguely. “Not all of them are going to let you down.”

“My _familia_ ,” she said quietly, looking back at her hands, forcing them to uncurl. “Has _never_ let me down. Not once.” They made mistakes, _s_ _í._ So did everyone. But they were kind and brave and passionate and loving. She couldn’t ask for a better _familia_ than that. Even Héctor hadn’t let her down, not really. He had tried to come back. Had done his best.

The only one who had let anyone down was her.

“ _Lo siento,_ ” she told him. Took a breath, let it out. “For not believing in you. For giving up on you.” How could she believe that he would leave their daughter? His Coco that he had loved so very much.

“It’s alright, Imelda,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s not alright and it’s not your fault,” she said, holding up a hand because she could sense he was going to say more. “You didn’t ask to—” She didn’t want to say it. The words got caught in her throat. “For what happened to you to happen to you. I was the one who was angry, who was …afraid.” And she could still feel the knife twisting hurt of it. “For a hundred years, living and dead, I’ve made my _familia_ suffer for my own selfishness. And I’ve made you suffer, too.  I wanted you to hurt for every time I did.” For every morning waking up alone, for every time they’d run out of money, for the debt collectors at their door, for every song that had torn her heart from her chest or every time Coco looked for him out in the night and cried.

“Well… hey. No one’s perfect,” he said.

She had to look at him again. How could he say something like that? She’d just explained everything she’d done and all he’d said was: no one is perfect? Why did he let everyone walk all over him? She loved him but _Madre mio_ was he frustrating.

“I mean… you might have made things difficult but… come on, Imelda…” He held out his hands as if asking her to understand. “If they didn’t love you, they wouldn’t have stuck around.”

She knew that they loved her, but it was nice to be reminded that they did, for whatever reason. She let that sensation rest in her breastbone. There was a sting for her in those words, too, but with it a quiet sense of relief. Now she didn’t have to wonder about it. She folded the thought up carefully and tucked it away, feeling an odd sort of hollowness that hurt and healed at the same time.

“Sooo…” Héctor said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go get one of them and—”

“No.” She was surprised at how calm her voice sounded. She rose from the bed and went to her vanity, brushing the wildness out of her hair. She didn’t intend to see them again tonight, but it made her feel better to do something other than sit in bed. He groaned.

“Will you let someone help you for once?” He said, and in the mirror, she could just see him massaging his brow. “They’re your _familia_. That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

“I don’t need any help.” She was just fine. He dropped his hand and gave her a flat look that she had to glance away from, pressing her mouth together to stop the odd giggle that was rising up in her.

“If you didn’t need help, your demon _gatito_ wouldn’t have flown me across half the city,” he said.

“Did she?” Her voice wavered a little in spite of herself. It was terrible, and she knew it, but the thought of Héctor hanging on for dear life as he was kidnapped by an angry Pepita bought a smile to her face. She leaned back to where she could see the _alibrije_ sleeping on the balcony.

“ _Gracias_ , Pepita,” she said.

“I’m glad someone’s enjoying this,” Héctor said, sounding annoyed. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t but she couldn’t resist. She raised her head and looked at his reflection from under her lashes.

“Me too.”

His expression flattened even more, and she had to cover the laugh with her hand. Ay, that face!

No, she had been horrible to him and shouldn’t be laughing. She cleared her throat and raised her head only in time for Pepita to give a rumbling purr like a chortle and Héctor glowered at the beast.

“And you should feel bad, too!” he said. “I dropped my enchilada and everything!”

She couldn’t stop the laugh this time, it came right out, bubbling from her rib cage, almost hurting it was so hard. She didn’t know why it was funny but the thought of it… the thought alone… The enchilada falling through the air, splatting on the ground or hitting some innocent bystander.

“Your p-poor enchilada…” she said, trying to contain herself. “It will be _missed_.” The last ended on a high note as laughter took her once again and she buried her head in her arms on the vanity, trying to stop it.

 _Ay,_ it was not fair teasing him.

She needed to— needed to —

She took a deep breath, and then another, keeping her head in her hands until she regained her composure. Once she was sure she wouldn’t laugh, she lifted her head. She just couldn’t look at him. That was all. She watched her reflection instead, pulling her hair over her shoulder to brush it. He let out a ragged breath. Had she really stung him? She hadn’t meant to.

…Well not entirely.

“ _Lo siento,_ Teto,” she said. “ _Gracias_.” Not that he’d had much choice in coming, apparently, but that was all the more reason to thank him. He probably had far better things to do than to deal with her; especially given this time of year. Who was waiting for him, she wondered. Who were his friends? What did he do all day? 

… Was there someone else?

Probably. Women liked Héctor. She wouldn’t say she was lucky to have caught his eye because dealing with him sometimes… _Ay_ _…_ But she was grateful for all good times they had spent together, what few they were. She was grateful that he always tried, even if he didn’t always succeed. Grateful for his music. Grateful for Coco. She had a lot to be grateful for even now, even here, even after so much.

He was watching her, she realized, wearing a lost expression. He probably wanted to go back to wherever it was he’d been pulled from. Well, he couldn’t go back like that. She sighed lightly, shaking her head.

“You’re a mess,” she said. His hair was wild and his _chaqueta_ missing its other sleeve. _Ay_ _…_   Sometimes she felt as if she’d spent a small life time sewing up his shirts. She’d never minded it, though. She’d liked the look of them on her lap and his scent lingering in the corners and folds. She got up and gestured to the vanity stool.

“Sit,” she said. He held up his hands.

“Imelda, you don’t have to—”

“It’s Christmas,” she said. “Sit.”

He sighed and sat. She pulled back his shoulders automatically so he wouldn’t slouch and the faint tap of bone against bone made her shiver. Imelda centered herself, reminding herself what this was and wasn’t. She bound her hair back first in a loose ribbon, then got her spool and needle. She patched up the ragged edge of his _chaqueta_ as best she could so it least it looked somewhat presentable. He murmured an apology and she shook her head.

 Then she got her comb and, after a moment’s hesitation, began to run it through his hair. It would never need to be cut again, she thought, but it was still as soft as she remembered it. He had the most beautiful hair. She remembered loving to wash it whenever they shared a bath together, and even when they didn’t. There was something magical about his head resting against the white rim of the tub, his eyes closed as she worked lather into his hair, massaging his scalp, watching the smile play over his lips. Such a beautiful man he was.

“Imelda,” he said, voice rough. She blinked and suddenly she realized she’d been humming ‘Remember Me’ without meaning to. 

 _Ay_ _…_

He was such a dangerous man for her.

And she even more so to him.

“ _Lo siento,_ _” she_ murmured, setting the comb aside. She resisted the temptation to wrap her arms around his shoulders and rest her chin on his head. She had oh so many memories of doing that, during sad times and happy ones. But when she looked at him in the mirror, those memories were jolted back to where they had come from. 

That past was dead and gone. They were _esqueleto_.  She had lost her Héctor so very long ago and there was no reason to keep waiting for him to return. This man was someone different, but still had a place in her _familia_ \-- and in her heart.

 “There,” said straightening his lapels absently. “Not _muy guapo_ but _guapo_ enough.”

He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t dare look into his eyes. Instead she crossed the room and gathered her dark purple shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.

“The _familia_ will be returning soon… I think I’ll make them a treat.” She paused and added over her shoulder without quite looking at him.

“You’re welcome to stay.”

“No… No, _gracias,_ ” he said, and she was relieved. She wanted to tell him to come back soon.  That she would like to see him again…

 Instead she opened the door.

“ _Feliz Navidad,_ _”_ she murmured.

“ _Feliz Navidad,_ ” he returned in that same rough voice.

Imelda smiled and went out, shutting the door behind her.


	10. Historia de Imelda: Golondrina Viajera P. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda works hard for her keep and always has, but it comes to the point of asking whether it is worth it or not... Especially as it seems that the closer she grows to Héctor, the further he is pulled away.

It is busy. Imelda swipes the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand as she resumes dicing the jalapeños in furious strokes, the knife thwacking against the cutting board. There are a handful more to dice before she starts on the onions, the green peppers, the red peppers, the little red chilis that are sitting in little baskets on the prep table. Behind her _Señora_ Marina and _Señora_ Lola, the cooks, bustle and curse, the latter mostly at her daughter-in-law, who is cringing and always rubbing raw hands where it’s been whacked by the stirring spoon of the overbearing woman.

The trays of steaming food go in and out of the kitchen by harried girls that Imelda doesn’t know, their faces gaunt and shining with sweat. Every time the door opens a low roar pours through from the dining room. The _posada_ is plugged full. And so is every restaurant and cantina and bar in town, for Don Sanchez’s _sobrina_ _’s_ wedding. It will be a _fiesta_ to end all _fiestas_ , or so _Señora_ Marina has told her. The biggest one San Menas or Santa Cecilia has ever seen. Everyone is looking forward to it.

She can’t wait for it to be over. She is working harder than ever for less than ever, the rent on her room practically swallowing all her wages so there’s little left to send for Oscar and Filipe. Sometimes she’s even forced to serve out in the dining room; to be leered at by men or to smack roving hands away from her skirts. But what else can she do? Where else can she go? She’s as trapped here as she is anywhere else.

She drops the jalapeños into a bowl and starts on the onions now, the odor stinging her eyes and making them well with tears so she has to scrub them with the back of her arm to keep going. She hates these damn onions. And the peppers and the smell and noise and heat of the kitchen. She hates the way her hands smell afterwards and the continuing looming presence of _Señora_ Lola, who has more than once waved a stirring spoon threateningly in her direction. Imelda snorts. If that woman even starts to swing that spoon toward her, she will snatch it from her crow hands and break it over her knee.

It’s even worse the other days where she has to clean the small stinking rooms from where they were left a mess by careless stinking men and _gracias de Dios_ she doesn’t have to do the laundry, too, or she would find it difficult to not tear the blankets out of sheer frustration. Maybe it’s because it’s become busier that she’s so restless, so annoyed at life. She’d never liked it here, but she’d been able to bear it. Now everything grates on her nerves more than usual and she isn’t sure why.

The door from the dining room opens once more and brings with it the sound of people cheering.

“ _Canta! Canta!_ ” someone is saying.

“Play something good, _m_ _úsico!_ ” someone else cries. Imelda races toward the door, heart surging up into her throat, pushing open the door with a bang that’s muted by the first thrums of strings. Her heart sinks even before she sees the trio of reedy _m_ _úsicos_ playing in the corner with everyone’s eyes on him.

“It’s not your man, tramp” _Señora_ Lola says behind her and Imelda’s heart stings in her chest. “He’s left you behind and forgotten you. Get back to work.”

She wants to tell her no. To leave the knife that is still in her hand on the cutting board and walk out. Instead she lifts her chin and avoids the woman’s sneering contempt as she makes her way back to her vegetables. _Señora_ Marina takes the bowl of jalapeños with her age spotted hands and says:

“ _No te preocupes_ , _ni_ _ña._ He’ll come back soon enough. Young men do that, you know. They wander in and out like stray dogs.”

Imelda nods because the woman is trying to be kind but doesn’t trust herself to speak. Even cutting vegetables brings her no sense of release from the frustration welling up in her. Héctor is not her man and he didn’t leave her behind, at least not in the way _Señora_ Lola speaks of. He and De la Cruz have returned to Santa Cecilia for Padre de Léon’s birthday. Héctor had even asked her to come, but she had refused. She was sure the padre had no wish to see her after— after throwing away what he had tried to do for her.

Shame flushes her cheeks and claws at her insides. It frustrates her, too. She doesn’t know why she should feel ashamed. She has every right to live her own life and make her own choices. But she had snuck out rather than tell him her decision to his face. She had left without anything more than a note. Was that really the action of someone who was proud of their decision?

One onion is finished and she starts on the other, hearing the blade sheer through the crisp flesh. Anyway, done is done… She is here now and she hates it but she didn’t expect not to. Though she had hoped… On that long walk here, sitting with Héctor by that stream and watching the light play on his face and in his eyes… She had hoped for something…unknowable.

Now she knew it, at least part of it. The thing— the what that she wanted lay in that cantina that day. The cheers of others, the laughter, playing the odd game with Héctor of taking and giving and then the best part, the heat and sweat of the dance, the feel of uneven floorboards under her feet, watching his eyes watching her, watching the sweat trail down his face. _Singing_ with him and their voices tangling together while the cheer rose around them like a great wave, full of joy and excitement and happiness and pure… pure _something._ It had felt like her heart was a flower that was blossoming into something vivid and red.

Now it was closed again, petals furled tightly against each other as if waiting for rain.

 The most frustrating thing is that she’s not sure _why._ It’s not just singing. She’s thought of it more than once, singing in the dining room— but the thought of her voice all alone freezes her from the neck down. She can’t by herself. Even the thought of dancing by herself doesn’t stir her. Though perhaps it’s because she doesn’t have time to dance. Nor little time else to sing. It’s just endless work.

For her boys, she reminds herself. And that _estupido bandito_ and his friend.

 _Until they leave_ , says the dry voice of _Tia Superiora_ in her head. _And then what_?

She doesn’t know. She won’t imagine it. Instead she dices the vegetables and nothing else. Then makes the tortillas. Then shreds the chicken between her fingers. She works until there is nothing but sweat and focus. The whack of the spoon accompanied by the _niña_ ’s yelp breaks through Imelda’s concentration. She stalks over, hardly knowing what she’s doing and snatches the spoon from the older woman, breaking it on the counter, the sound of splintering wood filling the small heated kitchen.

“If you hit her with it again, I’ll hit you,” Imelda finds herself saying, her voice harsh. “You’re not wanting her in the kitchen to help, just be a bully! How do you expect her to cook with her hands all in knots!”

A silence then, filling the whole kitchen, despite the dull roar of noise outside of it. _Señora_ Lola was looking at her stunned, but it didn’t take long for the storm clouds to return to her face. Imelda felt a stab of fear. What had she done? If she was turned out of this place—

But that poor _niña_ didn’t deserve to be hit any more. Imelda couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

“She’s right, you know,” says _Señora_ Marina. “The _niña_ can’t be useful if you take her hands away.”

“Your night in the kitchen is done,” says _Señora_ Lola through her teeth. Imelda knows she should drop her gaze, but doesn’t, her own jaw tightening. “That is coming out of your pay.” She gestures to the spoon.

“ _Bien,_ ” she manages tightly, tossing it into the stove on the way as she stalks out into the night. It’s foolish of her, she knows. She’s becoming as much as a careless _idiota_ as Héctor with more to lose. But what could she do? How could she push this feeling down inside her and just do what needed to be done?

She sighs. As her temper cools, the chill sets in and she rubs her arms. Looking around to get her bearings she finds she’s heading toward the _Fuente de Gallo_. It’s as good a place as any. The streets are still bustling this time of night. It’s early yet and darkness comes quickly, but Imelda knows she has no business being out this late on her own. Still no one tries to stop her and the two _m_ _úsicos_ playing by the fountain merely look at her hopefully and then away as they realize she has no money.

Imelda sits on the stone rim of the fountain, warming her hands between her knees and looks down the road. The evening hasn’t completely settled yet. There is still a glimmer of blue on the horizon and a band of orange. Héctor would be coming back down that road. He had said by last night or this one but she knows it will be longer. Maybe he’ll only return when they have to play for the wedding.

Well, she won’t think about it, she decides. She needs this job and this position right now and even if she wants for something more… she’ll have to content herself with what she has. She can do this. She _must_ do this. She is no longer a spoiled little _ni_ _ña_ safe behind _convento_ walls. She washes her hands clean in the cool waters of the fountain, then her face, splashing the sweat away. Tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow she will shroud her heart in a shawl and nothing will get through it.

That same heart squeezes painfully as the door to the nearby cantina opens and ‘Malagueña’ comes pouring out, men singing it drunkenly. She rises from the fountain hesitantly and approaches the building, wishing she had brought her shawl with her to wrap around her shoulders, pull over her head. The door shuts before she’s even there. She doesn’t have the courage to go in somehow. They will notice her if she does and she doesn’t want that.

There is a window with the shutters open around the side of the building and she goes to stand there, resting her head against the wall, palms flat against the wood though she can’t feel any sort of vibration from it. She listens to that song, running the memory through her head. That dance, his eyes, the feel of his breath. Her own heart shuddering so hard she was sure it was going to fly out of her ribcage. _Ay_ , what a _wonderful_ feeling that had been. What a beautiful moment.

The song ends too soon. She opens her eyes, not realizing she’s closed them, and folds her arms over her stomach, looking up at the sky. There are stars but clouds too, and she wonders if it will rain. A new song begins. One she hasn’t heard.

 She lifts her head, listening, though it’s difficult. The men in the cantina don’t seem as enthusiastic about this one and so talk over the singing that she can barely hear.

 

" _Golondrina viajera_  
_De mirar dulce y triste,_  
_Que tu nido formaste_  
_Dentro del coraz_ _ón._  
_Di, por qu_ _é me has amado_  
_S_ _í tan pronto te fuiste?_  
_Di, por qu_ _é me quisiste_  
_Golondrina que vuelas_  
_Como una canci_ _ón?_ "  


"Traveling swallow  
of sweet and sad glance  
that you built your nest  
inside the heart,  
tell me, why have you loved me  
if so soon you left?  
Tell me, why did you want me.  
swallow that flies  
like a song?"

What a beautiful song. What a sad one. It touches the hollow of her throat in a strange sweet way, and makes a lump form there… But it’s a sweet pain. She can’t understand it. She wants to hear more. To have that song envelop her. She presses against the wall, straining to hear.

“We’ve got more, _jefe_ ,” says a man near the window, drowning out the singing. Imelda scowls, tempted to tell him to shut up. Didn’t he appreciate people were trying to listen? There was only a grunt in reply.

“It’s those two _flojos_ from Cochcahua,” the man continues. “Gamblers.” He spits. “Should we give them more of a cut?”

 _S_ _í_ , she wants to say, just to get him to stop talking. But the moment is gone. There are more talkers then, more men with loud voices and she can’t hear the words anymore. With a grunt of frustration, she moves back around the building, tempted to say the hell with it and just barge in anyway. But she is tired of loud loutish men and having to push her way into everything, tired too of having to always lurk just outside. That is the way of the world and she knows it and she _hates_ it. She turns back to the fountain, rubbing her arms. She should go back to the _posada_ anyway and check on Sofia. The kitten would need to be fed soon and would be lonely, wanting attention, affection. Someone to curl up on.

She feels something open up under hear heart suddenly, like a physical pain, some gapped hollow place where she envies a _cat_ of all things. It’s foolish. She’s foolish. She’s stronger than this. But oh…what would it be like… To…just once…just for a little while…

“ _WAAHAHAHEEYY!_ ”

The _grito_ goes right through her like a lightning bolt, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. She sucks in a ragged breath and whips around to see him coming for her and in that moment she’s coming for him, too. Her feet pounding a heartbeat rhythm against the ground. The irritation melts away and something replaces it that’s so light and full she feels if she leapt, she could fly.

And she does leap, slamming into him so that he takes a step back. His arms wrap tight around her before she can drop even an inch and he spins them so she’s yelps and grabs onto his neck as the world turns around them.

“ _Idiota_ ,” she says, breathlessly, dizzy from it. He grins at her.

“I missed you, Imelda.”

She hates him. Hates the way this makes her feel as she pulls him in for a kiss. They get it right as they have so many times since then. She hates the fall of his hair over her hands and the way his fingers tighten against her back and the way she can just fall into him and want this so much it burns. Wants it so much that without it she feels half starved.

“You’re late,” she says, but he isn’t really, and it’s hard to sound angry when talking against his lips. _Estupido_. _Idiota_. _Bandito._

“ _Lo siento,_ ” he says and sets her down. She barely registers it, tugging him down to kiss him again. “I was just—” he tries to explain.

“I don’t care.” She takes his lower lip between her teeth, tugging it playfully. It’s a little dry and dusty from the road, but she doesn’t care. She just likes the way his fingers tense against her back and a shaky breath plays over her face. Oh, what she can do with this…

“Do you mind?” De la Cruz says, his voice intruding on her thoughts like a pin popping a soap bubble. “It’s been a long walk and I’d like to get home.” Imelda would like to tell him to just go on then, but he is Héctor’s _amigo_ so she won’t; especially since Héctor seems tired too. As he pulls back, she can see the shadows under his eyes and the tightness that spoke of a long day’s walking. She rests a hand against his cheek and he smiles and leans against it.

“Get your luggage already, would you?” De la Cruz snaps. Héctor blinks, straightens.

“What? _Ay_ _…_ ” And then he’s left her side and is jogging back the way he had come to where his suitcase is lying open on the road like a burst melon. She shakes her head, smiling faintly. He really must get a new one. She goes to help him and De la Cruz steps in her way. She takes a step or two back, lifting her chin, not liking him looming over her or getting in her way. She doesn’t want to see his stupid face.

“What are you doing here?” he says in a low voice. “You’d better not be causing any more trouble for us,” he says, jabbing a finger in her direction. She keeps her teeth clenched to resist the temptation to bite it off. She can tell him that she was just listening. That she didn’t even bother to go inside. But she doesn’t owe him any justification. So she looks at him down her nose and doesn’t answer.

He glowers, then sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I don’t think you understand how important this is to us. If we lose Ruiz’s support—” He watches her, thick eyebrows drawn together in concern. “You do care if we succeed, don’t you?”

She does. Of course she does. But she also hasn’t done anything wrong and refuses to apologize. His gaze doesn’t leave her eyes, as if he is trying to shame her. She continues to meet his eyes coolly and his expression hardens.

“ _Ay_ , I need a new suitcase,” Héctor says, coming around De la Cruz. She can feel her jaw relax and fights the compulsion to just lean against his thin form and close her eyes.

“You _need_ to stop dropping it like an _idiota_ ,” De la Cruz says and she can’t argue that but it is a bit charming. She reaches for Héctor’s hand, wanting to at least hold it as they go back, but De la Cruz thumps him with the guitar case.

“Here,” he says. Héctor goes to take it, which means she won’t even get that small pleasure.

“I’ll carry it,” she says, grasping the handle. Immediately, and with a tight smile, De la Cruz tries to tug it out of her grip.

“It’s entirely too heavy for you, _Se_ _ñorita_.”

“I’ve carried pots bigger than your head,” she says, not letting go.

“But such a long walk will tire even your brawny arms,” he replies an edge to his voice. She’s not sure what he means by that, but it doesn’t matter.

“Then you carry it,” she says with a smile of her own. He returns it.

“It’s Héctor’s prized guitar. Anyway, I have my hands full.”

“Maybe…we can all carry it?” Héctor says. She looks at him. That has to be the stupidest idea she’s ever heard. She’s not carrying anything with De la Cruz. “Iiit’s just been a long walk,” Héctor says, holding up a hand. “Do we have to do this now?”

She just wants to hold his hand. That’s all. But fine. It has been a long walk for them after all, so she won’t hold them up any longer.

“ _Bien_ ,” she says, letting go and turning away, cheeks burning stupidly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Or she better have.

“Imelda…” he says but she doesn’t stop.

“I told you she’d be like this,” De la Cruz says. “Women are always like this.”

She was like nothing! She had only wanted…!

But that’s it, isn’t it? Wanting. Fine, then. She won’t. She doesn’t want anything and she certainly doesn’t need anything. She hears him coming up behind her and braces herself.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” he says and all the anger melts out of her. What replaces it is a worn raw feeling and the knowledge that she’s just been petty over something she can’t even ask for.

“Don’t say that. You did nothing wrong.” She wants to reach up and grip his sleeve with her fingers, but keeps them clasped in her skirts, realizing they still smell faintly of onions and peppers. She sighs. He must be used to this by now. This smell on her, her hair a wild mess from working in the hot kitchen.

He brushes up against her as they walk as if trying to cheer her up with the contact. She bumps against him in return because it feels nice and her heart is lifted a little.

 “It’s too bad you weren’t there. It was a _buena fiesta!_ The whole town got behind it. There was a parade no one even saw coming right to the cleric house!” He laughs and she can’t help but smile. It must have been _fantastico_. She can imagine the music in the air and the food. Héctor playing for the cheering crowd. Padre de Léon amused by the whole thing.

But that is the price of cowardice, she supposes, though she doubts she would have been welcome.

“I agree, it _is_ a pity you weren’t there,” De la Cruz says, coming into step on Héctor’s other side. “In fact, you know, I think Santa Cecilia is a much better fit for you than this place.”

She doesn’t think so. She doesn’t feel a fit for any place really, and the thought makes her sad for some strange reason. She pushes it aside as best she can.

“What will you do now that you’re back?” she asks, a faint vein of hope running through her.

“Take a break,” Héctor says. Maybe she can ask if Corrido will let her have an afternoon to herself then. _Señora_ Lola wouldn’t mind her out of the kitchen and she can afford it. Barely.

“Keep dreaming, _amigo,_ ” De la Cruz says with a laugh in his voice, gripping Héctor’s shoulder and shaking him a little. “We’ve got to make it up to Ruiz _and_ the wedding is a week away! We’ve got plenty to do. No rest for the weary.”

Héctor takes a breath as if he wants to argue but De la Cruz says:

 “Especially if the weary want to make it.”

And the breath goes out of him in a sigh. Imelda keeps hers to herself. She does need the money after all.

“But don’t worry,” De la Cruz says. “This wedding is going to put us over the top! I’m sure that the cantina will be built in no time. And probably no women allowed,” he adds hastily in a way Imelda knows is aimed at her. “But imagine it! People coming from far and wide to hear us! Crowds every night! No more shack or rags but fancy charro suits and sombreros to make the _Se_ _ñoritas_ swoon!”

She can’t help but be a little caught up in it herself. She might not have completely understood before, but now? How can she not. To be in the middle of that roaring crowd, caught up in the excitement, the whirlwind, terrified but flying at the same time. _Ay_ , what a wonderful thought. She holds her knuckles against her throat absently but the smell of onions has her drop her hand again.

Only it isn’t for her. It’s only a world she can glimpse into. Something else just beyond her reach. But that’s fine. It’s fine. She’s perfectly alright.

Héctor doesn’t seem alright, though. She can’t tell if it’s because he’s just tired or maybe still thinking about that _cabron_ Ruiz, but he’s only half-heartedly humming to whatever De la Cruz has to say. It’s hard on him too, this life. She knows he feels trapped by it. But he can’t just break away from it and leave De la Cruz behind. They are close, these two men. Like _hermanos_. Héctor seems to take care of De la Cruz almost like she used to take care of Oscar and Filipe, making sure they’re fed, they’re happy, perhaps even safe.

And _ay_ , she is so far away from them, her beloved boys.

But they have one another as Héctor has De la Cruz, even if he seems weary right now. Her poor Teto. She reaches up and strokes the back of his hand with the tip of her finger. He looks over at her and smiles in a way that warms her through and through. She continues to stroke his hand, running her fingers over the ridge of his knuckles, then underneath to where his fingers are gripping the suitcase, twisting her hand so she can spread her fingers briefly over his. He shifts a little, rubbing his little finger against hers and she returns it. She misses being able to hold his hand. To spend lazy days with him underneath the shade of a tree or watch him shell beans across the table, just him and her. Those days felt like a dream now.

“ _S_ _í,_ well we’re not going to be a rich and famous anything if I fall asleep on my feet,” Héctor says to something De la Cruz said that she didn’t even catch. He turns to face her then, stopping just in front of her, looking down at her, lamplight catching in his brown eyes.

“ _Hasta Luego_ ,” he tells her.

_Hasta Luego?_

Only then does it occur to her that they are by the _Posada Ultima_ and she must stay here while they go on.

 No… She isn’t ready. It doesn’t seem fair. Like they’d only just started. Like she’d only just seen him.

 She doesn’t want to let him go to only see him for a few seconds a day, a single moment, a stolen kiss.

But she will not get in his way.

“ _Buenas Noches_ , Teto,” she says, standing on her toes, resting her hand on his chest to balance herself while she kisses his cheek. He moves his head as if to kiss her and she sinks back down to her heels, avoiding it. She doesn’t want to. Not right now. “Sleep well.” She wants to touch his jaw, then remembers her hands and rubs his shoulder instead, before turning and heading back toward the _posada_.

“Sleep well yourself, _Se_ _ñorita!”_ De la Cruz calls after her and she ignores him.

She’s frowned at the moment she comes in. They don’t like her using the front door. Ignoring them she goes to the kitchen, gathering a dinner from under the seething eye of _Señora_ Lola and then up the three flights of stairs to her room. Sofia greets her with a plaintive meow and Imelda sits on the bed, letting the kitten jump up to eat scraps of meat from her fingers.

 Silence presses in all around. She watches the kitten eat, and then eats herself, though the food isn’t very good. After, even though it’s early yet, she begins to prepare for bed. She has nothing better to do and they’ll probably want her in the kitchen bright and early for another long day.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Strange thumping wakes her from a restless sleep. Imelda opens her eyes groggily to a slant of moonlight on her pillow. Sofia is tucked against her throat, sleeping peacefully. She’s about to brush it off as her imagination when the thumping comes again.

No… not thumping. Knocking. She doesn’t know what time it is other than it’s late. Who in the world can it be? She wonders, annoyed. Can’t she even have her sleep to herself? Whatever they want of her, they can come back tomorrow. Imelda turns over, hearing a disgruntled ‘mew’ and then the knocks again. Chills go up her spine as the door squeaks open and she grabs her _chancla_ from under the bed.

“Imelda?” comes Héctor’s rough whisper and she’s tempted to use the shoe anyway. He could use a dent in the head or two. “Imelda, are you awake?”

“What are you doing here?” She takes her shawl from the chair nearby and self-consciously tugs it around her shoulders, turning to see him in the doorway. Half in the doorway anyway, looking hesitant what she can make of his expression in the dimness.

“I came to see you?” he says, still hushed. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought— I don’t know. Why not?”

Why not.

It stings but she shakes it off and sighs. Why not… She goes to turn on the lamp, then decides it’s probably better to save what oil she can, and the moon is bright enough anyway.

“Come in then,” she says, moving off the bed as another idea hits her. She shifts Sofia to the pillow and then takes the threadbare bedspread, spreading it over the floor in the square of moonlight made by the window. She sits, tucking her legs under her, and watches as Héctor makes his way over to her— stifling a laugh as he half trips over something in the dark.

“ _Lo siento,_ ” she murmurs.

“ _De nada_.” As he sits beside her, the moonlight glints off the bottle in his hand.

“What’s this?” She takes it from him and squints at it, shifting it around. “Wine?”

“ _S_ _í!_ From that day under the tree. I brought it back from Santa Cecilia.”

“Did you bring a corkscrew, too?” she asks. His smile droops.

“ _Mierda_.”

“ _Idiota_.” She hands the bottle back to him and kisses his jaw. “I have some scissors in my sewing box. Maybe that will help.”

The scissors aren’t made for it, but somehow Héctor manages to get the cork out anyway and offers the bottle to her. She takes a good mouthful, shivering a little at the taste. It’s warm and sweet and dry and reminds her of a sunny day and a peaceful river. She hands it back to him and watches him drink, the splay of his hand against the dark bottle, the way his lips press against the opening, the movement of his throat. It’s fascinating to watch and she can’t help but be entranced by it.

He is too beautiful to exist.

When he’s finished, he lowers the bottle, letting out a breath of satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“ _Bien._ ” He sets the bottle in between them, fingers lingering on the neck. “You know, they say the best wine is even _better_ than a woman’s kiss.”

“Do they?” she says, raising her eyebrows at him.

“ _S_ _í_.”

She slips her own fingers around the neck, enjoying the warmth of the glass, and takes another drink. Under her lashes she watches him watching her. She had been going to say something witty but his eyes widen and his throat moves in a way that nearly makes her choke on the giggle that rises in her throat. She gasps and lowers the bottle, stifling the laugh against her arm.

“Oh, Teto,” she says, just to say his name, to let it fall out of her mouth like a caress. He swallows again. She curls her hand around his collar and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s clumsy at first and too wet, but she opens her mouth under his again, deciding to try this herself. She seeks out with her tongue, a thrill going through her as she tastes the edge of his teeth, hearing and _feeling_ his surprised exclamation. She flicks her tongue against his, the heat and sweet wine taste of it making the thrill sharper and she pulls back, trying to catch her breath.

“Well?” she says, after remembering why she did it in the first place. He watches her with drowsy eyes, lips parted and she wants to kiss him again and taste the wine there.

“ _S_ _í,_ ” he says, sounding distracted. She breathes a laugh and pats his cheek to get his attention.

“Which is better? Wine or…?” and she gives him a look under her lashes. A smile spreads over his face, reaching his eyes, so sincere it makes her ache a little for reasons she doesn’t understand.

“Always you,” he says. Her face heats and her heart surges in her throat. How can he say things like that? How can he mean them? How can he do this to her always? He leans in to kiss her and she leans away, pushing his face away with her hand. She takes a long drink from the bottle, trying to calm the butterflies that are tickling the walls of her throat and dancing about in her chest.

“Imelda?” he says, his lips tickling her palm, breath hot against her skin so she drops her hand. He sounds worried.

“Did I make you mad?” he asks. She shakes her head.

“Are you unhappy?”

She shakes it again.

There is a silence then, a rest, an exhale before the next beat.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. She tangles her fingers in one of the fringes on her shawl and, after a moment, nods. He leans in but she can’t bring herself to face him so he kisses her cheek instead. His lips feel cool against her fevered skin. He moves. She can feel the faint brush of the tip of his nose as he leans to press a feather light kiss against her jaw, under her ear. She shivers with a strange heat of anticipation but doesn’t stop him. He shifts, one hand coming down on the other side of her to brace himself and she can feel the heat of his arm. She feels the knuckles of his other hand brush against her neck as he pushes her hair from her shoulder and she gasps at the cooler air, fingers clenching helplessly at the wine bottle.

“ _Ay,_ you’re going to kill me,” he murmurs and then presses a kiss against her neck. The thrill that goes through her is hard to explain, sharp and blunt both, going all the way to her toes. He moves down her neck, little brushes of heat and the rasp of his lips and the rush of his breath send gooseflesh rising on her arms and chest. Then his lips press against a certain spot low on her neck.

“Ah…” It tickles in a sharp sweet way and she tilts her head, letting him do it again and again, twisting the fingers of her free hand in his hair, the sweet burning licking up through her. She wants to move. Needs to. As if she wants to dance. But what kind of dance is a question.

She shifts to set her teeth against his ear because it’s there, but barely adding any pressure. She flicks out her tongue to taste, grinning at the helpless sound he makes against her neck and his trembling arm. She sets the bottle of wine aside so she can run her hand along it, feeling the sinewy muscle there, up to his neck, his pulse jumps under her fingers as she moves closer to him. She wants something. Anything. His hands. His mouth. To touch him. She works her hand in the collar of his shirt, feeling the skin underneath it.

“Imelda, wait…” his voice is rough and he takes her hand in his. She lets him pull it away and shifts as he does, looking up at him. A slant of moonlight falls across his face and she can see how dark his eyes have gotten, his lips parted as he watches her and she can see the endearing gleam of a tooth.

“ _S_ _í_?” she says, slipping her hand free so she can take his instead, press a kiss into his palm, feel the callused brush of his fingers against her cheek. He watches her through heavy lidded eyes that go even lower when she kisses the side of his thumb, the ridge of skin where it meets the rest of his hand. He swallows.

“Will you come with us tomorrow?” he says, voice rough. The thought of it sends another wave of warmth through her and she sets her teeth lightly against that ridge, watching him draw in a breath. There is a strange plink against the window, as if it’s started to rain. She wants rain. She wants a heady thundering downpour. She wants to go with him, too. To sing and dance and hear the thunder of the crowds and to watch him play and watch everyone watch him, drawn to his _estupido_ smile and clear warm voice.

She wants it, but…

“I can’t.” Corrido would never let her go, as busy as they are, and she can’t afford to upset him. Not now. He frowns, runs his thumb against her cheek. Even that small gesture pulls her. She leans into his hand, holding his hand against her.

“It’s fine… After the wedding, everything will change.”

“Will it?” she says, stroking the raised bones of his hand with her fingertips.

“ _S-S_ _í_.” He clears his throat. “I’ll find a way to break from Ruiz for good and …we’ll have more time. I can come and see you more.”

She might be freer, too. Maybe she can come with him again. There is another plink, like the sweet anticipation of rain, like the one that’s building in her now, like twisting silk inside her. She moves closer, slipping her arms around the back of his neck, almost sitting on his lap and feeling the heat of him. She pulls her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck again, rubbing her nose against his and watching his eyes.

“And what will we do when you come see me?” she says, feeling his hand settle on the small of her back like a brand, making her arch forward.

“Walk…” he says, leaning in as if to kiss her but she pulls back, just a little, to see if he’ll try again.

“Mmhmm and…?”

“Talk…” He kisses her cheek instead. Her jaw. “Sing, maybe…”

“ _And_?” Her own voice changes pitch as the fingers of his other hand brush against that spot on her neck but on the other side and she pulls his hair without meaning to. He sucks air through his teeth and she wonders if she’s hurt him. She can’t seem to find her own voice and before she can, he strokes the spot again, gently, sending the shiver through her whole body

“ _Por favor._ ” she says, breathlessly, wanting more of it, wanting more of everything. She pulls him closer to her, pressing against his chest, wanting to crawl into his lap and the cradle of his arm. His hand moves from her neck and settles on her shoulder, bracing her, as if holding her away from him.

“I…Imelda, wait.”

“What?”

This is the second time that--

There is another plink and the glass shatters.

Imelda yelps in shock, covering his head with her arms, feeling the whisper of something fly by her. There is something wet pooling against her ankle. When she can breathe again, she looks around.

 One of the window’s square panes is broken again, looking like jagged teeth. Glass is scattered all round, some on their laps, scattered against Héctor’s shoulder. She hisses and brushes it off, taking his chin his hand and turning his head from side to side, looking for cuts.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” she asks. He seems unhurt.

“Other than losing ten years of life, I’m fine,” he says with a laugh. “ _Hijole_ , I think my heart stopped.”

She cups his jaw and kisses the top of his head in relief, noticing the strong smell of wine in the air and that the bottle has broken in glinting red shards, staining the blanket. Behind one shard is a pebble.

Someone is throwing rocks at her window.

 _Again_.

Gritting her teeth, she sweeps the pebble up between her fingers, throws open the window and wings it back down to whatever _cabron_ is throwing it, seeing De la Cruz at the last minute.

“Ow!” he cries as the pebble whacks against his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think _you_ _’re_ doing?!” she snaps. She expects him to snap back at her, to say something cutting, he looks up at her under a wild mess of hair.

“You witch,” he snaps, rubbing his shoulder, and then his face opens. “I can’t find Héctor. I’ve looked everywhere! You have to help me. If--” He stops and she can see his hands clench into fists as she feels Héctor loom up over her shoulder.

“…Uh… _hola_ , Nesto,” he says, sheepishly wiggling his fingers. “ _Como estas_?”

“I should have known you would be here,” he growls. “You can’t just wander out like that! San Menas is a dangerous place!”

“You didn’t even tell him you were going?” Imelda says, twisting to look at him. “ _Idiota_. What if you’d gotten hurt somewhere?”

“Oh right,” Héctor says, sounding annoyed. “I should have woken him up and spent three hours arguing about why I shouldn’t be here.”

“I am _trying_ to look after our career,” De la Cruz snaps. “Because apparently only one of us isn’t ruled by his--” He hesitates. “-- _chilito_.”

 _Chilito_?

“ _Call_ _éte_!” Héctor hisses as if it’s something he’s trying to hide. “But look, I’m fine.” He gestures to himself. “And one night isn’t going to kill me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, _amigo_ ,” says De la Cruz. “I’m coming up.”

“No, you’re not,” Imelda snaps. She doesn’t want him up here, in her room, filling up the space that’s hers and hers alone, watching everything with those dark eyes of his and thinking of other ways to dig under her skin.

“ _Se_ _ñorita,_ at this point you have no say,” he says.

“Ernesto…” Héctor starts.

“You’ll regret it,” she tells him. She will break her shoe over his head if she has to to keep him out. This is her place. _Hers_. And he’s not allowed. For a moment it looks like he will come up anyway. Then his face pulls into a scowl.

“You’d better not be complaining about being tired tomorrow,” De la Cruz snaps, before turning on his heel and stalking back the way he had come. The night easily swallows him up and somehow she unclenches her hands from the window sill where the wood was biting under her fingernails. She folds her arms against the chill instead. Héctor groans leaning against the wall, rubbing both hands over his face before pulling his fingers through his hair.

“I should have told him.”

“ _S_ _í_ , you should have.” It wouldn’t have mattered if this were Santa Cecilia, but San Menas was bigger, easier to get lost in. The thought of losing him to swallowing darkness was terrifying…

“You’re an _idiota_ ,” she says, watching him, wanting to touch his face, hold it in her hands, feel his warmth and sink against his presence. But he’s looking out at the room, toward the door. Her heart jerks in her chest. She doesn’t want him to go. Even though she knows he will. He always does. For a moment she lets herself imagine him staying, offering to help her clean up and then sitting with her talking softly, keeping her close against the chill that is invading her room, shivering over her arms.

“Imelda…” he starts and she knows his next words.

“Go,” she says, sweeping up the blanket and as much of the glass as she can into it.

“ _Lo siento_ _…_ I should… talk to him at least….”

“I said go.” She dumps the rest of the wine out the window before adding it to the nest of shards in the blanket and knotting it furiously. There’s nothing to do for it tonight, she’ll have to hope the wine and glass will wash out of the blanket, or it is _another_ thing she’ll pay for.

He touches her shoulder and she jerks away, not wanting to sink into that again when it will be gone so soon.

“Do you want help.”

“Just leave,” she says, wishing he would stop hovering, stop tempting her to pull him down, try to convince him to stay. If she tries and he doesn’t… something will pull away, she knows it. Something she will never be able to get back. Something will end and she’ll have nothing left to hold onto.

Well it’s foolish to try and hold onto Héctor in the first place.

He seems to want to say something, there’s an indrawn breath and she can see him reaching for her, hesitating, pulling his hand back.

“ _Lo siento,_ ” he murmurs again. He crosses behind her and she turns away so she won’t even see him out of the corner of her eye, picking up pieces of glass she missed. The door opens. There’s a moment of silence and it closes again. She can feel it against her heart. Her eyes burn because of the chill. She adds the shards to the blanket before knotting it again and tossing it in the corner of the room. Sofia emerges from under the shadow of the bed an Imelda picks the kitten up, holding her close under her chin, feeling the soft furry warmth of her.

It’s fine.

It’s fine and it has to be fine because she’s going to be busy tomorrow. She takes a moment to stuff the gaping hole with an old rag or two and then heads back to bed. A sharp pain slices through her and she yelps, nearly losing her grip on Sofia. She drops one hand to knot it in her night dress, then lifts her chin and limps to the bed, setting the kitten down so she can work the forgotten shard from her heel, glaring at the bright button of blood that comes out after it, dripping from her ankle to the floor. The room smells like wine and blood and September air.

There is a tiny mew and a head butts against her arm. Imelda smiles, cradling Sophia in her hands and humming as the kitten rubs her head under Imelda’s chin, purring. At least someone is still here. Ignoring the chill and the faint throbbing pain, Imelda settles in bed, pulling what covers she has left over her shoulder and holds the kitten close.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Imelda scowls to herself as she shells the beans, fast and efficient across from the terrified daughter-in-law of _Señora_ Lola. It is the noon meal and slower than usual, and so she’s been put on prepping for dinner yet again. It doesn’t bother her to do so— or maybe everything bothers her the same, but today, a strange sort of uneasy apprehension is prickling against her ribs. Like something horrible is about to happen, and the day has been horrible enough already.

To start off, she’d woken up cold; the stocking she’d shoved into the shattered window pane doing little to keep the air out. She had spent half an hour shivering in bed, Sofia tucked against her stomach. The only thing driving her out from under the thin sheet were the bells of the distant church ringing in the hour. Five o’clock and pitch black. She’d lost half a dozen matches trying to light the oil lamp so she could get dressed, her fingers stiff and unresponsive and when she’d finally swung her feet out of bed to meet the freezing cold floor.

The next half hour or so she had spent laboriously collecting whatever night pots had been left out before going down and banking the kitchen fire and lugging chilled water from the communal well so that breakfast could begin. It was routine enough by now, but she’d also been foolish enough to bring Sofia down into the kitchen, letting the kitten explore somewhere new for a change-- and had come back to little sooty paw prints everywhere and _Se_ _ñor_ Corrido watching her from under his bristly black eyebrows. The window would have to come out of her pay, he had said in such a somber way that it chilled her even more after she’d stopped wanting to smack him with her pail for showing up in the kitchen at the worst possible time.

“I-Imelda?” _Señora_ Lola’s daughter-in-law says, and flinches when Imelda looks at her, looking down at her hands. “Never mind,” she murmurs. Then why say her name to begin with? Imelda tries not to be annoyed as she wipes the shredded bean pod from the table and gets up to stoke the fire.

She can’t even say it will be fine. Corrido hadn’t wanted her here to begin with and even less now that she’d had to pay for a broken window _twice_. What if he forces her out? What will she do then? Where will she go? The thought is dizzying and terrifying and she grips the counter, digging her nails into the wood, forcing the sensation back. She will do what she always did. She would… she would find somewhere… She would--

She would perhaps find a way to go to the twins. Perhaps find some _posada_ there that will take her. And live this life all over again. At least neither of them would throw rocks at her window more than once. They’d better not be throwing rocks at anyone’s window and if she ever found out that they did she would teach them not to, merely a _hermana_ or not.

Oh… her beloved boys… Imelda closes her eyes, trying to remember their faces. She hardly can now. Or the pitch of their voices. Or what they would say and how they would say it. As if they were slowly being erased from her memory. She hadn’t even had a letter from them, not since the ones the Padre had told her about, that they had chosen to stay where they were. To build lives for themselves. How strong they are to do that. How proud she is of them. How she misses them.

Are they forgetting her too, she wonders? Caught up in the exciting times and bright futures of their lives?

Well even if they are, it doesn’t matter. She sucks in a breath through her nose and stokes the fire until heat blasts her face, warming some of the cold inside her, and closes the stove door with a loud clang, grateful for the sweat which chills even as she rises. It is up to her to go and see them and remind them, not for them to take time out of their lives and be distracted for her sake.

And she should be grateful, she thinks

That they have such a chance to make something of themselves with no _familia_ other than each other and her. She shakes her head and lifts the bowl of shelled beans. _Señora_ Lola’s daughter-in-law starts to stand.

“Oh, I can--”

Imelda brings the bowl to the pot and dumps it in before grabbing the strings of peppers from the wall.

“What?” she says, turning to the _niña_ , belatedly realizing she said something. _Señora_ Lola’s daughter-in-law shakes her head.

“Never mind.”

She should also be grateful, she thinks, putting the peppers in a pile for chopping and then the onions, scowling at them too. _Madre mio_ , she hates chopping onions-- that that _vieja_ wasn’t here yet to badger her to do this or that or call her a tramp is a miracle.

Imelda stills as she hears footsteps just outside the window, heart climbing into her throat in a queasy way. Her fingers tremble a little against the haft of the knife. The footsteps go by. No one knocks.

Yet another thing to be grateful for, she thinks, starting on the peppers with rapid strokes of the knife, listening to it strike, that Héctor is not here yet. That he is late and his tamales are cold. If he were here, she’d have to deal with De la Cruz too. And also… She stills, looking at the red pepper, bright as a peony against her fingers.

Is…something changing? He’s never stopped her so much before. She always thought he’d liked it, too. That his surprised pitch was just because he was startled and she loves making him react that way. But is it something more…? She knows he likes some of what they do but is she going too far somehow? Or… is he…? Does he…?

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” says _Señora_ Lola’s daughter-in-law softly.

“I don’t care if he is or not,” Imelda says, resuming chopping because there is a lot to do and she shouldn’t let this slow her down.

“It’s… alright to miss someone…” says _Señora_ Lola’s daughter-in-law. Imelda pauses again, pressing her lips together, and then returns to chopping in a slow, deliberate, motion. It is not alright to miss someone. It _hurts_ in a way nothing can fix. But she knows the _niña_ is being kind, and it’s nice to have someone saying those things.

“What’s your name?” Imelda asks.

“Vita,” the _niña_ says with a smile.

“It suits you,” Imelda says, and Vita blushes charmingly. She’s pretty, Imelda thinks. And soft spoken and gentle.

“Mamá Lola doesn’t think so,” Vita says.

“ _Señora_ Lola is a _vieja_   _tonta._ ”

 Vita squeaks, covering her mouth with her hand and then, in a very small voice behind it says:

“ _S_ _í_.”

Imelda smiles, feeling a little better somehow and then even further as Vita takes the onions to cut. She’ll have to do something for her somehow, though she isn’t sure what. They cut in silence for a while. Imelda hardly notices footsteps by the window.

“How long have you two been courting?” Vita asks.

“Courting? We’re not courting.” What had made the _niña_ think that? Vita’s brow furrows.

“No? Then… what is he to you?”

That’s a good question. What is he? She’s never really thought about it. He’s a friend…but not exactly a friend. He used to be like a brother but he’s not that any more, and yet still oddly close. He is … He is Héctor. Does he have to be more than that?

“I was surprised when Rodrigo wanted to court me,” Vita says. “He was so handsome, I was sure he would want to be with someone else.”

She isn’t surprised. Imelda could see why a man would want to court her. She has a wide-eyed innocence, like a kitten, but without mischief.

“How did you meet him?” Vita continued. “Did…he give you flowers one day or… protect you from the rain?”

Imelda smiles at the thought of Héctor doing either. Though he had given her a flower once, and she doesn’t need any protection from rain. Just stones, apparently.

“He pestered me until I gave in,” she says, but fondly, remembering the _niño_ he had been. “Like a little flea.” And that horrible song he’d sang! She couldn’t even remember it but it had been awful, that she knew. He’d improved a bit since then.

“Do you regret giving in?” Vita says. Imelda shakes her head.

“No. Never.” He was a pain then and could be a pain now. But… being with him… even just talking… It feels… It feels like… Like… _Ay_ , what are the words?

“A feeling so close you could reach out and touch it,” she sings softly, half to herself. The song _feels_ what she means, even if she can’t say it, even though she doesn’t _know_ it. “I never knew I could want something so much, but it’s true….”

She trails off and shakes her head, wishing she could sing more of it. Vita takes a quiet breath.

“What is that?” she asks. “It’s beautiful.”

“His song… He hasn’t finished it yet.” But when he does, they’ll sing it together. Or will they, she thinks, turning her head from the window and cutting up more peppers.

“It sounds like a love song,” Vita says. Which is what she had said, twining her fingers through his. She remembers watching the sunlight on his face and hair and the concentration that knit his eyebrows, the way he had looked at something beyond. There is something magical about him that he can do that, think of beautiful words and play beautiful music and still reach for more. Still want for more. She wants for more for him.

But she shakes her head.

“I don’t think he wants it to be.” Which makes her sad for reasons she can’t explain. It’s fine. It’s his music and she knows he will find just the right thing to say. But it fills her with a kind of longing. She wants to hear the finished song. She wants to sing it. Be part of it as she was that one day. Maybe when the wedding is over, as he said. Maybe things will slow down here and she’ll have time to do that. To catch hints and snatches of that life, even if she has to put up with his annoying friend. She would put up with a thousand De la Cruz’s for that moment back, the thrill of the dance, the lilt of the song, watching him watch her…

Only….

She glances to where the tamales are still, cold by now.

She’d forgotten she’d been listening for him and, suddenly she wonders if he’ll be by today at all.

The kitchen door opened, letting in a burst of cool air that made her shiver, and chills prickle over her skin.

“Is that all you _niñas_ managed?” says _Señora_ Marina, standing in the doorway, lips twisted into an unhappy smile. “You’d better pick up the pace. The old _Señora_ _’s_ on the war path and it’s going to be a busy night. Also, Imelda, that cripple _m_ _úsico_ that hangs around here said this was for you…” The woman fishes a folded piece of paper from her green _rebozo_ and hands it to her. Imelda’s heart rises at _m_ _úsico_ and sinks as she realizes who _Señora_ Marina means. Not her _m_ _úsico_ in other words.

…Not that he was hers.

Before the door closes completely, Imelda can hear the warbling voice of the crippled _m_ _úsico_ who usually plays nearby:

   
“ _Mi tristeza es profunda_  
_Mi dolor es callado_  
_Recordando los besos  
__Que me hicieron so_ _ñar.”_

“My sadness is profound,  
my sorrow is silent  
remembering the kisses  
that made me dream.”

She frowns. It’s another part of the swallow song, or at least it sounds like it. It makes something uncomfortable turn over in her stomach and her fingers twitch against the paper. Maybe she doesn’t like this song after all. The little folded note is another mystery. She’s never really spoken to him, though sometimes has dropped a precious _centavo_ or two into his ragged hat. What could he possibly have to say to her?

 Imelda opens the note and blinks at the handwriting, a strange kind of bitter warmth flooding through her. It’s Héctor’s. She hasn’t seen it often, but often enough to notice little details.  She takes a moment to appreciate the little doodle of a flower and bee near the top of the note, and reads on.

_Imelda,_

She smiles at the look of her name on the page, written in his hand. The letters are crowded a little close together but there is a curve at the end of the a that she can’t help but be charmed by.

 _We_ _’ll be at the Ultima for dinner tonight. I know you will be busy, but I’ll wait for you. So don’t worry._  
_Today I saw a feather float down and land perfectly in the basin of the fuente without making a single ripple and I thought of you._  
Dance with me again sometime.

 _-H_ _éctor_.

A complicated emotion wriggles through her, something she can’t even identify, but it starts from the core of her and wriggles out in all directions. She presses a cool hand to her suddenly blistering cheeks and knows that she is smiling, despite everything. She feels light, and she has the urge to turn like that feather must have, spinning gently through the air, a swish of the skirts, maybe, a turn of the head. She imagines Héctor taking it from the water between his long fingers, that smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. Imagines the same smile as his hand fits on the small of her back or dances across guitar strings as he dances with her, close enough to touch, the evening sunlight warm on his skin.

 _Señora_ Marina clears her throat and Imelda starts a little, blinking at her wry smile and Vita’s almost enraptured one as if they knew something she didn’t.

“Not your _m_ _úsico_ , is he?”

No… He isn’t.

Though sometimes she wishes he were. She will have to be cautious, she tells herself. He has been late before. He has been distracted. De la Cruz won’t let him come to her so easily nor wait. She will deal with this in a calm way, she tells herself, neither hoping nor doubting.

A door slams from the back of the _posada,_ and Vita’s smile immediately disappears as she glances toward the kitchen door.

“Time to get to work,” says _Señora_ Marina, setting her bag of fruit on the counter. Imelda tucks the note in the top of her dress for safekeeping and hums ‘Malagueña’ to herself as she continues dicing, the peppers red as heartbeats.

 o.o.o.o.o.o

Imelda bustles around the kitchen. There is so much to do. The dining room is bursting at the seams. Girls and some men now, dash in and out, sweat sheening on their faces as they deliver meals. It’s the usual pre-wedding crowd, she knows, plus whomever came from the train that whistled in not too long ago-- and also…them.

The door swings open yet again, letting in the low sweet sad voice of De la Cruz as he sings to them, Héctor’s guitar just underneath it, playing the beautiful melody of that damned swallow song. Even _they_ can’t make her like it and she especially doesn’t like De la Cruz singing it for reasons she doesn’t know and doesn’t have the time to sort out. At least Héctor is here, she thinks, rolling beans and rice and pork and diced onions and peppers in a tortilla and setting it with its brothers on a plate near a bowl of _chili con carne_.

They are almost out of peppers, she thinks, and have completely run out of chilis-- and no more until the market opens in the morning. People will be unhappy… Though for the men they will be fine so long as the booze holds out, as _Señora_ Marina said dryly.

De la Cruz’s part ends and Imelda strains to hear the final notes of the guitar over the noise of the kitchen. The door swings open giving her only the tail end of a lingering note before the room whistles and cheers and claps. What is it with that song? Why does everyone like it?

“Your _m_ _úsico_ is talented,” says _Señora_ Marina. “It’s been a while since they’ve played here.”

“Since they’ve mooched here,” adds _Señora_ Lola, waving a ladle. “I haven’t met a _m_ _úsico_ who is anything but a shiftless _flojo._ ”

“His _amigo_ is very handsome,” Vita adds. Imelda can’t help but be a little surprised at this. It’s difficult to see De la Cruz as anything but annoying, like a grain of sand in her teeth.

“That’s none of your business,” snaps _Señora_ Lola, brandishing the ladle but not coming nearer. “You get back to your work!”

“ _S_ _í,_ Mamá _,_ ” Vita says, ducking her head.

Imelda shakes her head, watches the harried waitress take the finished tray and then leans, so she can catch a glimpse of the dining room. Through the crowd, she can just see him at a table near the middle of the room, guitar cradled in his arms, fingering it absently as he listens to the crippled _m_ _úsico_.

“Stop gawking, tramp, and get some more water,” _Señora_ Lola says, jerking her chin roughly at the barrel stuffed in the corner.

Imelda wants to tell her no. To go out there anyway. To sit beside him and become part of that world. The pull is so strong she nearly takes a step toward it. _Señora_ Lola watches her, narrow eyed, as if to see what she’ll do. She can feel the eyes of _Señora_ Marina and Vita too. Everything seems to hang on an indrawn breath.

If she leaves…

She will have nowhere to go.

Imelda turns and takes the water barrel. _Señora_ Lola breathes in a way like a laugh. Imelda ignores her as she lugs the barrel out the door and into the chill night. It is almost fully dark now. The sky is freckled with stars, but they seem distant and lonely.

 _Ay_ , there is no time for this.

And he said he would wait.

She shakes her head and carries the barrel the rest of the way to the communal well, bringing up chilled water, the rope rough in her hands. She tries to think warm thoughts. Of how it will be tonight. Sitting there, listening to him sing-- If he still has the voice for it. If he isn’t exhausted or De la Cruz hasn’t pulled him elsewhere. The sparrow song sings gently in the back of her mind, like a ghost.

 

 _“Que tu nido formaste  
_ _Dentro del coraz_ _ón_

that you built your nest  
inside the heart,”

 No. Her heart is not a nest. She is not just an empty nest waiting to be filled. She won’t think like that. She refuses the hollowness that is starting to well up just behind her breastbone. She will see him tonight, after all. Not that she needs to.

“ _Buenas Noches, Se_ _ñorita_.” The sudden voice behind her makes her start and she nearly drops the bucket back in the well, the rope singeing her hands a little. With a grunt she hauls the bucket up and turns to face him. It is Ruiz’s friend, towering above her, lit by the light of a distant lamp and the small cherry glow of a cigarillo. She lifts her chin, wondering what he wants. He seems to watch her but she can’t see his eyes clearly enough to tell, or anything about his face.

“Have you seen Rivera around?” he asks after a moment. She hesitates on what to tell him, then realizes the hesitation will give her away as much as lying, so shifts her stance and doesn’t answer. The bucket grows heavier in her hands and her fingers shake so she clenches them more tightly together. He chuckles deeply and steps toward her. She squares her shoulders, refusing to move or even drop her head. She doesn’t care how big he is. He stops in front of her, so close that she can faintly feel the heat of his body.

“Brave _pequeñita,_ aren’t you?” He reaches out as if he’s’ going to touch her face. She will bite him if he does. Even if it draws blood. But his hand drifts past her and he drops the cigarillo in the well. “When you see him, let him know that Ruiz is looking for him.” And after a moment he moves away from her, ambling off in the direction of the town.

The air feels colder. Ice crackles in her bones. She fills the barrel with the bucket she’d drawn up, wishing she could fish out the cigarillo but knowing it’s too dark to even attempt it. She covers the well and sets the bucket on top before picking up the barrel and hauling it back to the _posada_ , her arms shaking, her legs weak underneath her. _Señora_ Marina is standing just outside, the door closed behind her.

“Go and see your man,” the woman says with a smile. “I’ll tell the shrew I sent you for more.”

Imelda can only stare at her and the woman blinks, frowns.

“Are you alright? You look pale.”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Imelda says, shaking herself out of it, reaching to tug at her shawl only to remember she wasn’t wearing it. Then what _Señora_ Marina had said came through. She nods gratefully. “ _Gracias._ ” And heads around to the front of the _posada,_ every small movement making her startle and stare into the shadows.

Light is pouring from the windows and door when she makes it to the front and music drifts out. She goes to stand in the doorway, listening to Héctor, De la Cruz and the crippled _m_ _úsico_ were singing some lively song that she hadn’t heard before. The crippled _m_ _úsico_ laughs as they come to the end of a verse, though the song doesn’t seem to be done as Héctor is still playing.

“Are you sure you can do this, _amigo_?” the crippled _m_ _úsico_ says.

“I don’t think he _can_ do this,” says De la Cruz, white teeth gleaming in his grin.

“Oh, I will show you just how much of this I can do,” Héctor says, adding a complicated little picking in the tune that sends a shiver up her spine. “But first, a little help, _amigo_.” He nods at something.

“But of course, _amigo_ ,” De la Cruz says, and Imelda feels a stab of something almost like jealousy as De la Cruz lifts the tankard of beer by Héctor’s elbow and helps him drink it, though not very well as a trail of it goes down the side of his mouth.

“Ahhh,” Héctor says when he’s finished, tilting his head back. “Okay! Let’s do this! WAHOOO~”

          “ _Ay, Jalisco no te rajes!_  
_Me sale del alma  
__Gritar con color_ _”_

“Yahiiiii!” the crippled _m_ _úsico_ yells while De la Cruz laughs.

_Abrir todo el pecho_  
_Pa' echar este grito  
__Qu_ _é lindo es Jalisco!”_

 

He takes a breath. 

“ _Palabra de honoooooooooooo~~_ _”_

 

Héctor holds the note. And holds it and holds it, his voice filling up the room and swirling through her as others _grito_ and laugh and clap in approval. She feels a fluttering excitement too. A part of her wants to add to it but she knows it will be brittle and awful if she tries so she just watches, moving inside the doorway where it’s warmer, pressing her slightly shaking hand to her throat. She watches Héctor’s ears turn red and the note dwindles out with his voice.

“~~ _ooooor_ _…_ ”

He finally ends with a coughing wheeze and then throws his hands up triumphantly. De la Cruz claps him on the shoulder as the cheers and shouts rise up around them. She wants to go to him, to join in, to be in this moment. She takes half a step forward and stops. The moment she comes up to them, it will be over. De la Cruz will be snide and critical and once more Héctor will be in the middle, pulled back and forth like a fish caught on two lines. He seems so happy now, she can’t ruin it.

She hesitates until she sees De la Cruz slip an arm around his shoulders, then turns back the way she had come, moving back around the building and ducking into the warmth of the kitchen. It’s somehow not as warm as it should be.

“It’s about time you got back in here,” says _Señora_ Lola. _Señora_ Marina gives her a thoughtful frown and seems to want to say something, but Imelda turns away. She takes the pencil from the drawer that they use to make shopping lists and slips the note from the top of her dress. After one last moment to run her thumb over the handwriting, she flips the note over and thinks of what she could say. She needs to tell Héctor about Ruiz’s friend. It’s too much to write it all out, so instead she writes:

_See me before you go._

One of the waitresses is coming in and Imelda folds up the note and hands it to her.

“Give this to the _m_ _úsico_ with the big ears, _por favor_ ,” she says. The waitress nods and tucks the note in her apron pocket before heading out. Through the open doorway, she can see Héctor. In an instant his eyes meet hers. He starts, then starts to get up but she turns away and gets back to work.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o 

It’s late and the kitchen has closed for the night. Vita and the _Señora_ _s_ have gone home. Imelda scrubs the kitchen table, feeling worn and chilled. There’s still so much left to do before she can go up to her room and feed Sofia and sleep. The pot still needs scouring out and the kitchen floor needs to be swept again and scrubbed. And she is still waiting on Héctor.

The image comes fresh in her mind, him and De la Cruz, singing, having fun together, happy. Is that how they always are together? The twins are somewhat like that, too, she remembers. Together, close, hand in hand or arm over shoulders, in their own little world. She wonders what it would be like to be part of that world instead of on the fringes. She closes her eyes and imagines an evening gone differently. Of her moving forward, wrapping her arms around Héctor from behind or sitting beside him. Of De la Cruz giving her a smile and asking her where she’s been and then maybe the three of them singing together, or laughing and joking, or just being able to be there and soak it in like a cat in sunlight.

There is a knock on the doorway and she opens her eyes, face stinging at being caught daydreaming. She relaxes a little when she sees it’s Héctor, rubbing his arm and looking uncertain. She is tempted to go to him. She wants to slip her hands against his collar and pull him down for a kiss- to undo that thin ribbon around his neck and slip her fingers against the warm skin of his throat. Then she notices he’s holding his guitar case and realizes he’s just about to leave. Well, she’s been working and cleaning all night and can’t be the most pleasant to be around, so it’s fine.

“ _Hola,_ ” he says, wiggling his fingers in a greeting. She nods at him and continues to scrub the table. “Um… sorry I didn’t stop by earlier. There was a rumor Don Sanchez would be at the _Tresoro,_ so Ernesto wanted to see if we could catch him.” He shrugs, wearing a wincing, apologetic smile.

“And did you?” She turns from him to rinse the rag in the bucket of fresh water before wringing the wet out and setting it in the basin to dry.

“Nah. But on the way back we saw the padre.” There is something in the way he says it that makes her heart lurch a little and she dumps out the pot and begins to scrub it in earnest. Héctor takes a breath and adds: “Hee says he wants to see you.”

“I don’t want to see him.” And why should she have to? She doesn’t owe him anything. The seditious whisper in the back of her mind calls her a coward yet again and she presses her lips together. What does it matter what he has to say to her? She’s made her decision. Why should she have to listen?

“I think he’s worried about you,” Héctor says.

“Is that all you came to tell me?” Since she doubts he is. She can’t imagine why Padre de Léon would concern himself with her unless it’s to lecture her about going against his plans. He never has before, but he’s never made time for her before either save to tell her where to go and what to do.

“Well…I wanted to see you. And-- Ah! _Mira, mira!_ ”

She half turns to see him jingling a little pouch full of coins.

“It’s for your window!” He beams at her, gesturing to the pouch. “That’s why we came here tonight. Since we broke it, we should be the ones to pay for it.”

She smiles, a wave of relief going through her. It seems she’ll have some money after all. She wipes her hands on her apron and crosses over to him, accepting the pouch as he hands it to her. The weight feels good and she has that little thrill that came with this kind of money. It wasn’t just what someone could get working in a kitchen, no, people had paid because they had been happy to hear him play and sing. No, happy to hear _them_ play and sing. He leans toward her as if he wants to kiss her and she tucks the money in her apron pocket and turns away to go back to the pot.

“Imelda…” He sounds sad. She hates it when he sounds that way. “Are you mad?”

She shakes her head. No. How can she be?

“Not even a little?”

No. Not even a little. She shakes her head again. He sighs. Why? She’s not angry. What is he upset about? She scrubs the pot harder, the black flaking away. She expects him to leave but then hears the whispering scrape of the broom. She glances over her shoulder to find him sweeping diligently, the guitar case on the table. It’s a nice look for him. She likes the way he grips the broom in his oversized hands and the way his hair falls over his face as he looks down at what he’s doing. She wants to push it back. She wants to take the broom from his hands and fit herself into those hands instead, hooking her fingers at the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, trying to keep herself rooted. He looks up at her, a smile dimpling the corners of his mouth.

“I want to help out. Besides, you look good from this angle.”

“I look good?” But she’s not even facing him. She goes to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then remembers her hands are wet and folds them in front of her instead. His face flushes a little and she can’t help but smile.

“ _S_ _í_. I mean, you look good from any angle.”

“Liar,” she says with a laugh, though her face feels hot. “I’m covered in sweat and grime…” And her dress is starting to become threadbare.

“Maybe…,” he rests his cheek against his hand on top of the broom, dimples deepening. “But nothing could make you less beautiful.”

Damn him. Imelda presses her hands against her cheeks. How dare he say something like that? How is she supposed to react? She turns away before she can smile too broadly and even still her face feels a little stiff from it.

“ _Ay de mi_ , Imelda, Imelda,” he sings, sweeping his way closer. “Imelda with the dark eyes.”

“Everyone has dark eyes.”

“Not as dark as yours,” he says. “Dark and full of secrets.”

She is going to throw the rag at him in a minute. It’s just not fair. She can’t let herself be swept up by this, she tells herself, pouring the clean water in the pot to give it a final rinse before setting it upside down in the basin to drain. She will let herself get warm and safe and close and he will find he has to be somewhere else or De la Cruz will show up… She doesn’t want to fall again.

“Isn’t De la Cruz waiting?” she says.

“Nah, he went home hours ago. He knows I’m staying here.”

“He must have been annoyed,” she says, drying her hands on the towel once more and shivering as Héctor opens the door to sweep the dirt out.

“You know, he wasn’t. He just said to enjoy myself.” He looks out into the night. “He’s been in this weird good mood ever since we saw the padre.” He seems to think about this for a moment then shrugs and grins at her. “More time to spend with you, I guess.”

“How long?” it sounds sharper than she meant it but she lifts her chin, refusing to back down.

“As long as you want,” he says with a final sweep. “I’m all yours tonight.”

All hers tonight. What a heady thought. She brushes her fingers against her collarbone absently as she watches him shut the door and set the broom against the wall. All hers tonight. No one to interrupt. No chores to do. Just the two of them. Unable to speak, she holds out her hand. He moves to take it. His palm is damp too for some reason. She slides his guitar case from the kitchen table before handing it to him and blowing out the lamp; then, slowly, she makes her way to the back stairs. It feels like a luxury somehow, the night unspooling in front of her in a mystery. They walk in silence, hand in hand, listening to a faint snoring coming at the end of the hall on the first landing.

 _“Ay de mi_ , Imelda, Imelda,” Héctor sings softly, making her flush all over again. “Imelda with the cute ears.”

“Shh!” She swats back at him with her free hand, fighting back a giggle. It was ridiculous anyway. How could ears be cute? He must be drunk. He leans in so she can feel his breath ghost warm over her ear and down her neck.

“ _Ay de mi_ ,” he sings and she squeaks as the tickle is unbearable, turning to press her hand over his mouth. “Imelfa of fhe fong fair,” he sings against her palm.

“Shh!” she says again. “You’ll wake people up.”

“Okay.” He kisses the center of her palm. She cautiously lowers her hand. He leans forward and kisses her lightly. She hums and returns the kiss, wanting to press it further, to dive her fingers in his soft hair. But not here. Tugging his hand, she leads him to the second floor landing, then up the stairs to the third. She can already feel the cooler air twine about her ankles and, it shivers over her shoulders the moment she opens the door.

“ _Ay,_ it’s freezing in here!” he says.

“Mm.” She lets go of his hand to pick up Sofia before the kitten can run out of the room.

“Ah,” Héctor says. “That’s my fault.”

“Not yours,” she says, shifting Sofia to one hand so she can turn on the oil lamp, but only a little, enough to provide enough warm glow for Héctor to see by. “Not entirely,” she adds, kissing the top of Sofia’s head before depositing the kitten on the blanket. She gestures to the bed.

“Sit,” she says. He frowns and hesitates, but then does as she asks, setting his guitar case on the floor and rubbing his fingers together, a furrow in his brow. She takes his face in both hands and kisses his forehead.

“It will be fixed, soon.” She takes the pouch of money from her apron pocket to make a point and tucks it in the side table drawer. She holds back the sigh as she moves past him into the darker, colder part of the room. She’s glad she thought to dispose of the wine soaked blanket this morning but the smell is still lingering. She takes a moment to clean up after Sofia the best she can, refilling her water from the pitcher and tries not to think about how much the kitten is trapped even more than she is in this small room. Perhaps she’ll try to let her out more often.

She half turns and is caught suddenly by the sight of Héctor sitting on the bed, back to her, the lamp light forming a hazy glow around him. He’s rubbing his arms, obviously still cold. She wants to go to him and wrap her arms around him, to keep him warm with herself. But she still feels grungy from the kitchen. She takes up her shawl instead, setting it around his shoulders.

“Imel _da_ ,” her name turns to a squeak as she kisses the back of his neck, just under the fringe of his hair. She suppresses a giggle, considering it revenge for earlier.

“I’m going to get changed,” she murmurs. “Don’t turn around.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to leave the room?”

“Shh.” She says, tugging his ear lightly between her fingers. “Stay.”

She doesn’t want him to leave. If he leaves, even just to step out, who knows what could take him away from her.

Imelda strips quickly, in the chill until she’s standing and shivering in just her underskirt, holding the still warm dress against her breasts. She can hear him breathing and she looks over her shoulder at his back once more, A strange heated flush goes through her, as if she’s taken a sip of wine, and she holds the dress against her mouth, the cooler air prickling over her skin.

How strange to be so undressed in the same room with someone else.

With Héctor.

She wonders what it would be like kissing him like this, pressing up against him, feeling his warm hands slide over her bare skin.

“Imelda?” he says and she shivers, his voice sliding over her skin much the same way. “Are you--um… “

Dressed, she thinks he means. She watches him, considering what to say; then smiles against the dress, swaying back and forth a little.

“No,” she says, just to see what he’ll do. His shoulders seem to tense.

“Isn’t…” He clears his throat. “Isn’t it cold?”

“Very. I have gooseflesh everywhere.” She can feel her smile widen and she rolls her shoulders, unable to keep the faint laugh from her voice. “You should see me.”

“I think I would probably die,” he says, voice strained.

“I would probably kill you,” she replies, holding the dress with one hand while she takes down her hair, shaking it out to settle in a warm cloud on her shoulders and mid back. “Probably,” she adds. “But then again who knows?”

“You’re teasing me,” he says and she giggles.

“ _S_ _í_.”

“Maybe I’ll tease you back.”

“How?” She drops the dress, watching the way it pillows on the floor, crossing her breasts with her arm now instead. Her night dress is under the pillow where she left it. She will have to get nearer the bed. What if she, when she was there, just pressed against him from behind?

“I’ll find out where you’re ticklish.”

She yelps and snatches the dress back up, holding it underneath her chin.

“Don’t you dare, Héctor!”

“When you least expect it.”

“No!”

“Just come up behind you and--” he wiggles his fingers in the air where she can see. She throws her apron at his head and it falls uselessly to the floor before even reaching the bed. Sofia pounces on it, investigating the smells and crawling in the pocket.

‘If you do that, I really will kill you,” she says, moving around the apron to snatch her night dress from under the pillow. “I mean it.”

“I will go a happy man.”

“You’ll be a dead man!” she says, tugging on her night dress and wiggling out of her underskirt, and letting it pillow on the floor as well. She’s about to grab them up to fold them but is stopped when he says:

“But if I die, who will kiss you?”

She gets another shiver then. A horrible one. As if someone just walked over her grave. A knot of ice settles in her chest and for a moment she can’t move except for clutching uselessly at her night dress. He always does this to her. Always. _Always_. Only he didn’t do it on purpose and she doesn’t even know why she feels this way. Why all of a sudden she can’t breathe.

“ _Ay_ , _Lo siento,_ Imelda,” Héctor says. “I _am_ an _idiota_.”

“ _Call_ _éte_ ,” she says, not wanting to hear it, wanting to stop thinking about it and shake this horrible ice shard feeling from her.

“Anyone in their right mind would kiss you.”

“ _Call_ _éte!_ ” As if that is the problem! It isn’t. She doesn’t know what is, but the thought of kissing anyone else turns her stomach a little. A curl of cold sends another shiver through her and she wants to be warm again. She moves around the bed to find him giving her a small smile, the furrow back between his brows. He raises his arms.

“Do you want your shawl back?”

No. She doesn’t. Not yet anyway. But she does want to be warm. And with him. So she turns and settles in his lap. His legs are bony so it takes her a moment to find just the right spot and then she tugs his arms around her, shawl and all and draws her feet up to settle against him. His arms settle around her shoulders in a hug and she closes her eyes as his lips press against a patch of skin just in front of her ear, then rests his head against hers.

 She holds back a sigh, not sure if she’s glad he stopped there or not; and takes one of his hands in hers, locking their fingers together, hidden beneath the fringe of the shawl. For a moment they sit in silence, listening to the creaking sounds of the _posada_ in its sleep. There is a skitter of paper against the floor as Sofia plays with one of her makeshift toys. Héctor’s breath stirs the fine hair at her temples.

“There are so many things I want to show you once this _bobo_ wedding is over,” he says. “The _ochomobile_. The _jefe_ _’s_ garden, though we have to sneak into that one. Cantina row at night, when all the bars and restaurants are lit up and there’s a different _m_ _úsico_ in each place. There’s a restaurant near the _Tresoro_ that has this little plaza thing in back there with a cactus garden, all in bloom, and lights all above it; and I thought; Imelda would love it here. More than anything I wanted you to see it right then, to be there so I could play for you and watch you dance.”

Her face heats and she lets go of his hand to play with his fingers, running her own along them feeling the calluses on his fingertips, smiling as his fingers curl against hers. It takes her a moment to figure out even what to say. It feels like it needs something. It’s as if something is shifting and needs her help to push it into place.

“You think of me?” she says finally, cradling her palm against his, fingertips brushing over the vein in his wrist and feels him shiver a little.

“Of course I think of you,” he says, voice faintly hoarse. “All the time. From the moment I saw you. Even when you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” she says with a surprised laugh. She leans back to trace her fingers against his jaw and plant a kiss on the opposite cheek. “You are just a _chingaquedito_.”

He breathes a laugh.

“I can still tickle you, you know,” he says, dropping his other hand to her side. She squeaks and grabs that one, too, clasping both of his hands safely over her stomach. She can see his wide grin from the corner of her eye and turns her head away as if it doesn’t bother her at all, kicking her feet a little.

“But it’s true,” he says. “I did think about you. I do. A lot. Sometimes because I hear a pretty melody or because a waitress rolls her eyes at someone.”

She wants to bite his fingers for that one, but isn’t sure why as it pleases her somehow.

“And sometimes… just for no reason. Like, coming back up to San Menas the other day, Ernesto and I stopped by that stream and I saw a little red flower growing in a cactus patch. I don’t know where it came from because it wasn’t attached to any cactus that I could see but it was there and blooming despite everything and I thought, those are lucky cactus.”

“You’re _loco,_ ” she says, giving into the impulse to tug his hand to her mouth and set her teeth against his finger, testing the resistance of it. Then she tastes it, just to see how she likes it and that ceases to matter the moment he sucks in a breath and the fingers of his other hand tense against her stomach.

 _Ay_ , he is too much fun. He shifts underneath her as if trying to move away, but doesn’t. She wonders about that. What does it mean when he does that? When he pushes her away? Is there something he doesn’t like? Or…? She sets her teeth against his middle finger now in thought.

“Um…” he swallows. “Do you …think about me?”

“Hm?” She blinks and moves to his ring finger, shifting it a bit against her lips before running the top edge of her teeth against his knuckle. Did she? Well sometimes when she was annoyed at him. Otherwise she couldn’t remember. “No,” she says finally. “But I miss you when you aren’t here.”

“Do you?” he seems so surprised at this that she lets go of his hand completely so she can shift sideways on his lap and look at him, looping her free hand against his shoulder.

“Of course,” she says, playing with the strands of hair at the back of his neck. “Why do you think I get so mad when you leave?”

He seems even more startled at this.

“You _do_ miss me!” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Wow!” He sounds so happy she can’t help but smile. How could he not know? “You miss me _and_ you like me…”

“ _S_ _í_.” Is that really such a surprise? She thought it was obvious. She kisses his cheek because he’s an _idiota_. Then his jaw. Then shifts once more, straddling his lap so she can test the ridge of his ear between her teeth and slink her arms around his neck, diving one hand into his hair.

“Ah….haha Imelda…” he says and she recognizes the tone even before his hands reach her shoulders. She sits back on his legs and frowns at him, letting her hands drop in her lap.

“What?”

He winces as if she’s glaring at him, but she doesn’t think she is.

“ _Lo siento--_ I… it’s just… well…” he gestures vaguely. “I’m a…. _Ay_ _…_ ” He pulls at his collar. “Is it hot in here? Because it feels _muy_ hot in here.” He fans himself with the edge of her shawl. “Maybe I should open the window?”

“Do…you not like it,” she says, braiding the one of the fringes of the shawl absently so her hands had something to do.

“No. I mean… _S_ _í…_ I mean I like it…” he says when she looks up at him. “Iiit’s just that I like it a liittle too much.”

“Too much?” She takes his hand in hers again, trying to figure out what that means. “I won’t stop,” she says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.” Is it? She kisses his knuckles lightly. “I like it too.”

“I know…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking away from her. “I just wonder if you’d like it the same amount if you knew how much …” He gives her another kind of wince. “ _Chilito_ liked it too.”

“ _Chilito_?” De la Cruz had mentioned it too. That he was lead by it. She doesn’t think it’s a person. It had _better_ not be a person. She watches his face, hoping he’ll explain, and has the faint impression he’s hoping she’ll understand what he means somehow.

“That tells me nothing,” she says, frustrated. “What is _chilito._ ”

His face is slowly turning scarlet and he still has that wince in his eyes.

“It’s-- It’s-- you know….” He gestures downward with his free hand. She looks down, then up again, not getting it. “Me,” he says after a moment, sounding strained. “You know… little me?” Little him? “The little me that all _hombres_ have?”

“Oh, your penis.”

“ _Imelda_!”

She gives him a look at his shocked tone.

“I’ve bathed the twins often enough to know what they look like,” she says. And the _hermanas_ had explained in rough detail the differences between _niños_ and _niñas._ “But I still don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“ _Ay, Dios mio._ ” He buries his face in his hands. She can’t understand what he’s so embarrassed about. It’s not as if she didn’t know he had one. She gives him a moment, feeling the faint urge to pet his hair and tell him it’s alright. It doesn’t bother her. Why on earth would it? “ _Ay_ _…”_ he says again. Then: “Okay.” He drags his fingers over his face as he raises his head and looks at her. “When a _ni_ _ño_ grows up, things change.”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” she says, rubbing her thumb against his sparse whiskers. “So I’ve noticed.”

“And one thing that changes is that… is that their… our… _chilitos_ start to get…” He grimaces. “Ah… Interested in things.”

She nods, trying to understand. How could it get any more interested than a hand or a foot?

“And… ah…when they’re interested… they lift…”

“They do?” She somewhat imagines them floating in air, though she knows that can’t be right.

“ _S_ _í_ … and uh… you know… get bigger… because of um….fact of life things….”

“Oh, like pollination.” The _hermanas_ had explained that, too. A woman was like a flower and the man the bee… who gave her… seeds somehow… and she put them in her and eventually a baby came out. She still wasn’t sure what a penis had to do with anything. Unless…. She looks down at his lap thoughtfully once more. “Is that where the seeds are?”

“ _S_ _í--_ ” He looks down too. “At…least I think so. I can tell you it doesn’t look like a seed when it--” He stops… runs a hand through his hair.

“When it…?”

“Uh… spits…”

“What does it look like?”

Héctor groans and flops back on the bed, hands covering his face once more. “Can I go back and redo this night? Someone? Anyone?”

Imelda frowns. She doesn’t know why it matters so much, but clearly it does. She tucks the shawl around his shoulders and stretches out beside him.

“ _Lo siento,_ Teto,” she says, kissing the tip of his nose. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She wants to know. She wants to see it when it raises and gets bigger. She wants to touch it. But maybe that’s not something someone else was supposed to do. “But if you tell me what interests it, I can avoid it.”

Since she still wants to play, and there has to be a way to tease him without getting it excited. He makes a noise and throws his hands helplessly in the air.

“What doesn’t get it excited is the better question. I mean sometimes it’s a _Se_ _ñorita_ or an um…” He looks at her, looks away. “Drawing of one. Or something like that. Sometimes it’s when I hear a note played just the right way. Or when I have to go in the morning, or when I’m looking at a fluffy cloud. Or, you know, I could be just sitting down, eating the hottest _habañero_ I’ve ever had in my life, and it knocks on the bottom of the table, saying: _hola,_ Héctor I’m hungry too!”

She giggles, the squeaky voice he’d used for his _chilito_ not helping matters.

“It seems very excitable.” She props her chin on her fist, tracing his nose absently with her fingertip, enjoying the bony rise of it.

“ _S_ _í_ , and sometimes it gets excited when I couldn’t be further from it.” He scratches his nose, glances at her and away again. “Buuut when I’m around you… We’re kind of… in it together. So, when I get excited…”

“I excite you?” She can’t help but smile, a certain kind of pride going through her. She thought she had, but knowing it for sure is something else altogether. _Ay,_ and she just wants to do it more, now. To see what makes him shiver and squeak and--

\--But maybe he doesn’t want that.

“Should we stop?” She doesn’t want to. She would miss it.

“No.” His immediate answer sends a flood of relief through her. He lays his arm out as if asking her if she wants to share the shawl and she happily snuggles against his side, sighing happily as he wraps his arm and the shawl back around them again. “Just… let’s keep going as we are.”

“ _S_ _í_.” She tucks an arm around his, resting her head on his shoulder and traces aimless patterns on his chest. His fingers seem to mimic the pattern against her shoulder and she smiles ~~.~~

“What about you?” he asks after a moment.

“Hm?”

“What um… happens when you… um….” He gestures.

“Get excited?”

He nods and she can feel his fingers tense a bit. Sometimes she thinks he likes the tension, or else can’t resist asking the question regardless. She hums and considers, tugging the ribbon from around his throat and wrapping it around her wrist, enjoying the feel of it. What happens? She’s not sure. There is that warm drunk feeling that comes sometimes, the chills, the sense of something like anticipation but--nothing that grows or rises.

“I don’t know.”

“What? You never…” he scratches the side of his nose. “…uh…tried to find out?”

“I’ve never had the time.” And it’s not something that had occurred to her to do. What would she even do, she wonders. And how?

“ _Ay,_ you work too hard Imelida.”

“I have to.”

He sighs, breath brushing over her ear.

“I know.”

She wishes she didn’t have to. That she was as free as he was to sing and dance and do what she wanted. Maybe one day she would be able to. There is a soft thump and Sofia jumps on the bed and noses her way under the shawl, tucking her furry body between them. Imelda smiles and reaches down to pet her, brushing Héctor’s side as she does. They feel like a little _familia._

They aren’t though, she reminds herself fiercely. They aren’t and tomorrow it will be back to normal, with long days and hardly seeing him.

Still-- so long as she has this, these quiet moments with him; even if it comes in bits and snatches, she will be fine.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Imelda wakes slowly from the soundest sleep she’s had in a while to the sense that something is odd. A part of her doesn’t care, and wants to burrow back into the warmth, into the hazy dream she was having that she can’t recall. Awareness comes anyway as her body bullies itself awake. She is lying in her bed, feeling the lumpy mattress beneath her. The rough bedspread rubs against her calf where her nightdress has shifted during sleep. She yawns, stretching her legs out, then frowns as her foot slides back against a shin directly behind her. She rubs it absently. Hands dropping to the larger ones resting loosely around her waist, fingers warm against her stomach. She traces the ridge of bone with her fingertips, pleased to feel them twitch slightly against her. She can feel the heat from his body now, notices his breath tickling against the back of her ear.

Hmm… Teto… _Bandito_ … Her sweet _m_ _úsico_ …

She tugs up one of those hands to press her lips against the knuckles, then snuggles against his arm, liking the warm presence of it against her chest. She shifts her foot, creeping over his shin to rub his calf with the pads of her toes, biting back a giggle as she feels him stir, grunting, fingers twitching.

“ _Buenos Dias_ , Héctor,” she whispers in the most serious voice she can manage, which right now means barely edging on a laugh. He grunts and she can feel him shift.

“ _B_ _’nos Dias_ …” he mutters, then, after a moment. “I’ve either gone blind or I have a cat in my face.”

She giggles.

“Who knows?” And sets her teeth against the rise of one knuckle, just because it’s there. He groans.

“’Melda….”

“ _Lo siento,_ ” she murmurs, pressing her lips together and tucking his hand under her chin so that there will be less temptation.

“It’s too early to be eaten alive,” he says, though doesn’t sound too upset about it.

“Oh?” She scratches his calf lightly with her toenail. “Does that mean I can do it later?”

“Not if I do it first.”

“What?” She can feel him shift and the hot twinge of breath against the back of her neck before: “ _Ay!_ ” It is as if her neck is flint and the light graze of his teeth sent sparks shooting every which way under her skin. Her face floods with heat and she absently flexes her toes against his calf, unable to do anything else at the moment. She wants him to do it again. She wants him to never do it again. She’s relieved and disappointed when she can feel him flop back on the pillow.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters.

“ _Lo siento._ ” She doesn’t know what happened. She is trying to be good about this but it’s very difficult, especially as a part of her wants to ask if he feels that way when she nibbles him; because if he does, she doesn’t want to stop. She will set her teeth against every last part of him until-- until something.

No.

She must stop thinking this way.

At least for now.

Instead she lets his hand go and shifts in his arms. Facing him will be better, she’s sure. It’s still too dark to see much of anything as it is not yet even five, but close. She wants to see him. She wants to watch his eyes and his eyebrows and his narrow face and ridiculous nose. She loops her arms around his neck, feeling his settle at the small of her back, and brushes her nose against his. She wants to nibble that, too. Just the tip. Kiss it. Set her teeth against his thin lips and the edge of his jaw. She runs her hands through the back of his hair instead, feeling a kind of odd relief as Sofia settles between their stomachs, acting like a small furry barrier.

She wonders how _chilito_ is, but knows better than to ask. She rubs her toes against his shin again in mute apology and because she likes touching him. His hand moves against her back, rubbing in warm circles and she lets out a breath, closing her eyes. It feels good. Not in the heated way, but something else…. Like something she never knew she was missing was suddenly there.

“Oh, Teto…” she snuggles closer almost without thinking, squishing Sofia a bit but the cat doesn’t seem to mind. She kisses his nose and rests her forehead against his to resist the temptation of going further. There is quiet for a moment. She can hear the faint breeze outside, the muffled purrs of Sofia, his breath as it ghosts across her face.

“She dances in Santa Cecilia,” he sings softly and she smiles as his fingers begin to run through her hair. “And makes the plaza her own. With her dark hair and her voice and her stare, no one can resist her song.”

Imelda smiles and joins him in the chorus.

“My heart is in Santa Cecilia, with her walls that soak up the sun. The cobbled streets lead to the church for the sinners and then dance to the plaza for fun.”

 She loves that song. It makes her long for Santa Cecilia in a strange way, like it’s a home she never had but always wanted. It’s not her home, though. She has no place there… and no place here. But something special anyway, she thinks as his fingers drift over her ear, trace her cheekbone, his hand rests against her jaw and he rubs a surprisingly ticklish spot at the corner of her mouth.

“I wish you could sing with me,” he says.

She does too. They both know why she can’t. At least not right now.

“Maybe after the wedding….” Now that she thinks of it, she can’t help but remember last night. Ruiz’s friend. She rests her hand over Héctor’s, turning her head a little to kiss the heel of his hand. “I remember what I wanted to tell you. Ruiz’s friend, the big one…. He said Ruiz wanted to see you…”

“Eh…probably.  He didn’t want us to come here tonight.” She can feel him shrug.

“I don’t like him.” She grips Héctor’s shirt with one hand, feeling the fabric under her fingers. And then another memory sparks. “I think I heard him talking to Ruiz about something terrible when I was trying to listen to that damn sparrow song.” She can’t remember what it was about, but that doesn’t matter. “I don’t trust him.”  

“You shouldn’t…” He presses a kiss to her forehead, making her feel a bit better in spite of herself. “The Ox is one rude _flojo_. But he won’t hurt us. We’re practically his lapdogs right now.”

“Are you sure?” She can’t be certain. It doesn’t feel right to her. It seems he’s taking it all too lightly.

“ _S_ _í._ Trust me. It’s fine. So long as we bring in the _dinero_ , we’re in his good books” She can see him grin in the gloom. “But I like it when you worry about me.”

She traps the joint of his thumb between her teeth in revenge for that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there is nothing to worry about but…

She lets his thumb go, pulling his hand away so it doesn’t distract her.

“If you get hurt, I won’t forgive you.”

“I won’t. I promise…” He seems to hesitate a moment, then kisses her lightly. And a second time, more insistent. A third. A fourth. She lets his kisses carry the worry away, moving her hands restlessly in his hair and tugging him closer. Somehow he is just not close enough. Can never be.

She pulls him back, slipping her arms around his neck to keep him there. She wants to pull him on top of her and wrap her legs around him. Keep him here, keep him safe, keep him anchored to the ground, in her world. But she could never do that to him. To trap him in this place. She tangles her leg with him instead, to at least keep them together. He moves from her mouth to press kisses on her jaw, and she tips her head as he trails his lips, featherlight, down her throat. He will stop. She tells herself this.

He will…

“Imelda…” he murmurs against her throat, lips tickling and making her squirm, want to laugh, but the sound that comes out of her is not quite that. “Imelida…” His breath is warm against the dip in her throat above her collarbone. His hands are low on her back. She resists the urge to pull one to her thigh and instead tries not to dig her nails into the back of his neck as he finds another ticklish spot.

“ _Diosa_ ,” he all but whispers. She can’t stop the shiver that goes through her. _Diosa_ …. But of what? She doesn’t care. She wants to be anything so long as he doesn’t stop. He shifts and kisses the ticklish spot again. It’s horrible. He’s horrible. Her whole body is glowing and sensitive.

“Do you really not like the song?” he says, distracting her and if he doesn’t stop talking against her throat, she is going to go a little _loco._

“Mm? Song?”

“ _Golondrina Viajera_.”

Oh, the swallow song.

“No. I don’t.” But it’s hard to sound like she means it when one of his hands slides over her ribs to her back and the other strokes the hollow of it, making her want to arch like a cat.

“We’re going to sing it at the wedding…”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” she whimpers as he presses a kiss against that spot on her neck. And then… “No!”

She tugs at his hair, pulling him away from her so she can concentrate. It’s difficult because she can see his face more clearly now and she just wants to kiss him again… But this is important.

“That’s an _estupido_ song to play at a wedding…”

“But it’s Don Sanchez’s favorite,” he says.

“I don’t care if it’s God’s favorite. He isn’t the one getting married.

Héctor frowns and she strokes his cheek, trying to smooth away the expression with her thumb.

“No one wants to hear about a fly away swallow on their wedding day.”

“ _Ay_ , you’re right,” he says, shifting to kiss her thumb. Then opens his mouth and she can feel his teeth against the joint of her thumb. She wiggles it experimentally. “You’re tho thmart,” he says and she giggles a little at the flicker of warmth from his tongue.

“ _Gracias._ ”

He lets go of her thumb to kiss her palm, her wrist, takes her hand in his and buries his mouth against this inside of her elbow. It tickles and she wants to curl into him or bring him back to her neck… But the growing light reminds her that soon she’ll have to leave this warm bed and his warm presence and go back to work. With a sigh she turns over, taking his hand with her, pulling it under her chin like she had earlier. Part of her wants to lure him into kissing her again, or teasing him enough to feel his teeth sting her neck. But she knows she’ll regret it when the bells ring.

She will see him again tonight, she tells herself, and maybe she can convince him to come up for a while and they can play a little more. For now, she still has a little while at least to drowse in his warmth. She snuggles back against him fully, and has a moment to wonder what on earth is in his pocket before he lets out something like a muffled yelp and moves away a bit.

Oh.

She giggles and nips his knuckle a little. _Buenos Dias, Chilito,_ she thinks. Maybe one day he won’t be so shy and she’ll get to see it. For now, she kisses his fingers and the palm of his hand and his breath ghosts against the back of her shoulder before his lips press against her.

Mmm. She closes her eyes. It feels so good.

What is this feeling? The flower in her chest opening warm and sweet? What is it called? What does it mean? She wants to cup it between her hands and bury her face in it. She wants to tell him about it but has no words for it.

“A feeling so close I could reach out and touch it,” she sings softly against his knuckles. “I never knew I could want something so much, but it’s true…” What is the rest of it? She wishes she knew. It’s not a love song, that’s what he’d said, but then what--? Her thoughts are interrupted when the bells ring the hour.

She wants to ignore them. To bury against Héctor’s warmth and spend the rest of the day like this.

Wants to, but can’t.

“I have to get up,” she says, laughing a little as his hand tightens against her stomach to pull her more securely against him. “Héctor…”

“Don’t go…”

“I have to.”

He kisses her shoulder again and her toes curl a bit against his leg.

“Change your mind,” he says. “We could stay in bed all day, drink some wine, sing some songs, only get up when we get hungry and then go right back where we started.”

“Is that the life of a _m_ _úsico_?” she asks with a laugh, reaching back with one hand to stroke it through his hair.

“It could be!” He kisses another spot on her shoulder, dangerously close to her neck and she tugs his hair in warning this time.

“Maybe when things slow down.” But she can’t even let herself imagine it. Doesn’t dare to. “Let me up, _por favor._ ”

He sighs gustily and his grip loosens enough so she can slide out of his embrace and get up.

It’s chilly in the room and the floor is cold, but that warmth is still inside her, making it seem hardly worth noticing. She stretches her arms above her head, arching her back just a little, feeling oddly settled despite everything.

“Close your eyes,” she says as she moves toward the bureau. She doesn’t check and see if he does, but almost hopes he doesn’t as she loosens the strings of her night dress and lets it puddle to the floor. Again, she feels that interest of standing naked in the cold, with the warmth of the bed and him so tantalizingly close. She resists the temptation to tell him to open his eyes, to crawl back in just as she is and press against him, feeling the clothes soft against her body.

Instead she changes quickly, humming ‘Malagueña’ to herself and smiling when he joins in. Harmonizing.

She continues to hum in a measured way as she brushes out her hair and braids it, pinning it in place. After a moment she realizes he’s watching her. In the still early light it’s difficult to make him out clearly, but it’s clear enough. She can see the glint of his eyes under his thick lashes where he’s sprawled out on the bed, hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Sophia is sleeping near his head now and he absently pets her, fingers brushing against silvery black striped fur.

What a beautiful man.

Unable to resist, she climbs back on the bed, hiking up her skirts a little so she can straddle his waist and braces her am on the bed beside him so she can press in a kiss. She only means it to be one, but can’t help but add another and a third, slow lazy meetings. His callused tipped fingers brush against the back of her neck and she shivers. Taking his hand from her neck, she presses a kiss to his fingers, then another kiss to his mouth, then rubs her nose against his.

“I’ll see you soon, Teto,” she murmurs. She wants to ask if he’ll come tonight. If she can see him again just like this. Even to just wake up beside him in the lazy dim morning. The words are on her lips but she doesn’t dare speak them. She doesn’t want to see that cringe, the shifting glance that tells her that she’s not going to like what he has to say. Instead she says:

“Be safe.”

“I will,” He looks up at her with deep brown eyes, running his knuckles against her cheek.

She smiles and gives him one final kiss before getting out of bed, turning her back to him as she pulls the apron around her waist. The bed squeaks and she feels his fingers against hers as she reaches back to tie it in place. He tugs it away from her.

“Héctor!” she says, turning, irritated now. She _has_ to work! Even if she’d rather do anything else. He grins, getting up, tying the apron around his own waist. She puts her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help out.”

“You are going to help out,” she says, dryly, raising her eyebrows. “Emptying night pots and everything.”

“ _S_ _í!_ ” he says, and she hates his big stupid grin and the way that it makes his dimples shadow in his cheeks. “I used to help out all the time in the _orfanto_.”

Imelda doesn’t know if she believes it. She can imagine Héctor trying to get _out_ of helping-- at least the little _bandito_ she knew. Maybe he’d grown up a little since then.

“What about De la Cruz?” Because even if she’s fine with him helping, the last thing she wants is to deal with that _cabron_ this early in the morning. Héctor flaps a hand.

“Ah, don’t worry about him. He doesn’t get out of bed until at least noon most days.”

A hope starts to light in her chest, something small and fragile. It’s like a strange dream to think of it. To work with him again, side by side. Him coming into her world, small and busy and messy as it was. It’s something new. Something exciting. And, above all, a few more hours of his presence. She smiles and strokes the line of his jaw.

“ _Bien_. From right now, you’re all mine.”

His expression falls open in a way that thrills her right to her core, and then he smiles in a way that warms her from the inside out.

“ _Ay, mi Diosa,_ _”_ he murmurs, kissing her palm. “I wouldn’t belong to anyone else.”

It’s not fair how he can steal her breath away, she thinks. Even with a lie.

She twines her fingers through his and tugs him toward the door, letting him keep the apron for now because she likes the way it looks against his legs. She stops to toe on her shoes and lets him go so he can do the same, watching the angle of him as he plants a large hand against the wall, fingers splayed, and tugs it on with the other. She likes the way his shoulders move and the way his hair falls over his eyes so he has to brush it away and then blink at her in the dimness.

She smiles, taking his hand again and leading him out of the room and down the stairwell into the slightly warmer hall of the second floor. It was dim still though the morning light was starting to creep into the hall. She sighs, feeling oddly content. She squeezes his hand then gives him a gentle push to the other side of the hall while she begins to collect the pots that have been left out on her side.

“Oof,” he says at the first one Then:

“ _Ay_ …” Then:

“ _Ayyyy_ …”

She has to press her lips together to keep from laughing but then has to muffle it behind her hand as he says:

“ _Dios mio,_ look at the _size_ of that thing, Imelda…”

“I don’t want to look at the size of it!” she whispers when she feels she can speak without laughing. “Now _hush_. People are trying to sleep.”

“I’m surprised this one’s not dead.”

She giggles despite herself and would have swatted him if her hands weren’t full.

“Shh!” she manages. He shushes, though seems to grunt or groan at every new discovery. She has to tell him to hush a few more times; then laughs a bit too loudly, part amused, part disgusted as he sings a little song of three little _amigos_.

“Héctor!” she whispers, with more of a laugh than she meant to.

“ _Call_ _éte_ already!” a man grumbles from inside, making them both startle and then have to stifle a laugh all over again. Once they are outside and well away from the pots left for the nightsoil man, Héctor sucks a deep breath in through his nose and rubs his fingers together.

“ _Ay yi yi._ Do you have to do that _every_ morning?”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” she says, leading them around the building to get the water barrel from the kitchen and lug it to the well. “It’s not usually this much.” The _posada_ is still full to bursting after all, and she has the feeling that Corrido is too cheap to hire someone else to do the work. Or maybe there’s just not enough of a call for it. She supposes she’ll find out over time. Héctor shudders.

“ _Gu_ _ácala_. I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugs. It’s just another thing to get through. Another chore. Another task. Part of the routine.

“So…” he rubs his hands together. “What next?”

“We have to draw water for breakfast, stoke the fire, wake up anyone sleeping in the common room and sweep it, set up the tables, then I’ll help the _Señora_ _s_ make breakfast.” _Señora_ Marina wouldn’t mind Héctor, maybe. But she couldn’t remember if it was her or _Señora_ Lola coming in this morning.

“All that?” he says, looking shocked. She can’t help but be amused at this as she hooks the bucket to the rope and lowers it into the water.

“It’s not that much. It’s only a little more than I did at the cleric house. Or the _convento.”_

“Don’t you ever want to do something else?” he asks, adding his own hands as they pull up the rope. “You can’t cook and clean all your life.”

Can’t she? She’s not sure what else she _can_ do. Though she’s never really thought of it in terms of a whole life before. Will she still be doing this when she’s old? She can’t even imagine herself being old, she thinks, as she looks at her smooth brown hands against the rope. Would it be so bad to keep doing it? To become _Señora_ Lola or _Señora_ Marina one day? But they are married with _familias_ of their own and homes of their own. They are Mamás to children and perhaps even have Mamás of their own. Even Vita has a home and might have children one day.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. She neither wants nor needs either. It is enough to look after herself and her boys and Héctor. She moves the bucket to the lip of the well, frowning a little into the oval of water. It seems clear but she stirs the wooden dipper inside it, wondering if she’s pulled up the cigarillo that _cabron_ tossed in here last night.

“How did you end up in the _convento_?” Héctor asks.

“Hm?” She takes a tentative sip of the water. It seems fine to her but the thought of the cigarillo in there makes her stomach turn. “I think I took myself to the _convento_.” She only very faintly remembers that and mostly just the boys’ weight on her back.

“What about your parents?”

“Dead, I think.” Her Mamá she was sure of. The shawl had been hers after all. Her Papá? Probably. Though she never remembered even seeing his grave.

“ _Hu_ _érfano, muchacho_ ,” Héctor murmurs. She blinks. She supposes she is, though she’s never felt like one before. It makes her feel lonelier somehow. Colder. She shakes the feeling away and glances up at Héctor. He’s looking out over the shacks. He seems concerned. She doesn’t have to ask about who and tries to ignore the faint twinge.

“Are you worried about him?” she asks, pouring the water into the barrel to take back to the kitchen. At least boiling it will get rid of any cigarillo taste. She hopes. Héctor startles and looks guilty,

“Eh… a little…” He gestures vaguely. “I mean he can take care of himself but…he was in a weird mood last night.”

“He seemed cheerful.” She drops the bucket in once more.

“ _S_ _í_ , but usually he has a reason to be cheerful. I mean we spent most of the night on doing something for you and… I didn’t expect him to enjoy it.”

Imelda presses her lips together-- annoyed that De la Cruz might have been irritated at having to sing and play for something he’d done. It’s not as if she’d even asked him to do it, but neither had she asked him to throw rocks at her window.

“He’s not bad, you know, Ernesto,” Héctor says as she pulls the full bucket onto the lip of the well and pokes around viciously for any sign of the cigarillo. “He’s just… He’s got a very set idea of what he wants and what he doesn’t want but… That’s because he’s a _hu_ _érfano_. Like us.”

Imelda snorts and, finding the water clear, pours it into the barrel. She is nothing like De la Cruz. She’s not rude for one thing, nor completely snide, nor does she throw rocks at windows to get Héctor’s attention.

“Buut I think it’s a little different for him,” Héctor says, hands in his pockets as he looks back at the shanties. “He knew his _familia_. The influenza just took them one by one. Some of them were even still alive when he was at the _orfanto._ So he got to watch them go. He always talked about this uncle he had in Mexico City who would come for him one day but…” Héctor shakes his head. “I mean we’ve all got something, you know? Ernesto’s just more driven than most and he thinks you distract me, but I don’t mind.”

He grins in a way she wishes she could find charming but it just annoys her more as she drops the bucket in for a third time. She wishes everyone else didn’t mind. She can’t help but remember what Padre de Léon said, about how Héctor was generous to want to help her. And she knew he was enough of an _idiota_ to not think things through. But she usually only got inches of his time. So how could it be that bad?

“Anyway…maybe it was just because he was drinking a lot,” Héctor continues. “He got pretty tipsy last night. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him go back on his own…”

He trails off, sucking on his lower lip. She’s caught between exasperation and concern. De la Cruz is like a tick on her life, draining away what time she has with him. But then that isn’t fair. He has no one and she, at least, has her boys, far away as they are. And Héctor _is_ concerned. She wants to smooth away the furrow that’s formed between his brows. Her poor little fish. Time to snip him from her line.

She takes a moment to take a breath and then another, pressing the frustration away and back. It’s her own fault after all for wanting too much as always with him. When she can speak evenly, she slips her arm against his back and says:

“Go on,” leaning up to kiss his cheek. He looks at her startled. “ _Huérfanitos_ need to look after one another, don’t they?”

She wishes De la Cruz would do more for Héctor but he cares about him at least. She remembers the way his arm had been around Héctor’s shoulders the other night. Even when Héctor had drunkenly brained himself on the wall that night, De la Cruz had let him stay with her rather than dragging him back to their little shanty with only a little arguing. And maybe once he gets what he wants, he’ll be able to look after Héctor more too as he should.

“Welll--” Héctor says with a little wince. “Maybe just for a few minutes? To see if he’s okay? I promise I’ll be right back. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

“Hush.” She always knows when he’s not there. And she knows it will be hours until she’ll see him again. If not days. She’s fine with this. Of course she is. She’s had a good night and can’t really ask for more than that, can she?

“Take your time,” she says, hauling up the bucket a final time and, after a thorough check, pouring it into the barrel.

“But--”

“He’s not going to be happy if you leave. So you might as well stay with him.” She doesn’t add that there’s no need to make them both unhappy because that definitely isn’t fair. He frowns at her, giving her that sad eyed look, and slips a hand around her waist.

“What about you?” he says. She hates him for that. How dare he tempt her just by that simple touch, those words that strike right at her core? It makes her want to bury her fingers in his shirt and lean against him and wish De la Cruz out of the picture. To ask him to stay.

She won’t do either. Héctor and De la Cruz were _hermanos_ and just as close as Filipe and Oscar in their own way. She couldn’t wish that away for Héctor who had so little to begin with, and she wouldn’t take it from De la Cruz either. She knows he should go. She wishes that just once he would just go instead of … of… being concerned with her.

“What about me? I have work to do and you’ll just be in the way.” Taking a breath, she hefts the barrel.

“At least let me help with that,” he says. She relents, even just to ease that frown from his face. They lift it again in a fluid motion and she’s surprised at how much lighter it is. How much easier it is to carry. She playfully matches his steps or maybe he hers and it’s almost like a dance, moving in more or less synch back to the _posada_. The sun is up now, still a warm amber, and seems a blessing all its own, warming them against the chill. He smiles at her again, nudging them a bit sideways and she follows his lead and nudges him back the other way. She wants to set the barrel down and dance with him truly. She wants to hold onto him and never let go. She wants to climb him like a tree.

Somehow she keeps her feet on the ground and all too soon they are inside the kitchen, setting the barrel just out of the way. The frown is back again, the little fish looking sadly at the other hook.

“Go on,” she says. “Get your guitar and see your _hermano_.”

“I don’t know when I’m going to see you again,” he says. “It might be a few days. Unless!” He brightens a little. “We’re going to be playing at the _Tresoro_ tomorrow night. There’s a _fiesta_ for Sanchez’s _sobrino-_ in-law. Last chance before the wedding.” He bounces his eyebrows. “You should come.”

He must have read her look because his smile fades.

“I get it, you’re busy.”

Well he didn’t have to say it like that. It’s not as if she has a choice about this. 

“I’ll see you in a few days.” She kisses his cheek, trying not to be irritated, then turns toward the stove to kindle the fire. Judging by the noises upstairs, breakfast will have to be started sooner than later and there’s still the common room to sweep. She clicks her tongue and grabs the broom where he left it last night, ignoring the weight of his eyes.

It doesn’t take long to nudge those sleeping by the fire awake as most of them were waking up anyway to the sounds of the day starting. It reminds her a little of the refugees that had stopped by the _convento;_ only in this case they were mostly men, rough from a long time traveling on hard roads; not worn little knots of worried _familias_. She sweeps the room briskly and comes back in the kitchen just in time to see Vita and _Señora_ Marina, fresh from the morning market.

“ _Buenos Dias,_ Imelda,” Vita says with a shy smile. Then: “ _Gracias._ ” As Imelda takes the basket of fresh eggs from her.

“ _Buenos Dias,_ ” _Señora_ Marina echoes, setting her own bundle of fresh produce on the table. Imelda catches a mango before it can hit the floor. “Let’s see what fresh hell is in store for us today,” _Señora_ Marina adds with a smile, tying on her apron.

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad, _Señora_ ,” Vita says quietly. Then her eyes widen at something over Imelda’s shoulder. “ _Perdón_ , _Se_ _ñor._ You’re not-- oh!”

Before Imelda can turn arms come around her and she startles, nearly elbowing him in the gut. In just the nick of time she recognizes the hands and smiles as Héctor fits the apron around her waist and ties it securely behind her.

“I thought you’d want it back,” he murmurs in her ear, sending a buzz right up her spine. “You’re always misplacing things, Imelida.”

Cursed _bandito_. Now she has goosebumps everywhere.

“Oh, eat a mango,” she says, shoving it back at him. Then: “Wait.” She pulls it away before he can set his teeth around it and yanks him down for a kiss instead, feeling him tense and relax. His hands find her hips. She wants to sink back into him but resists the urge; instead drinking up this moment, the pressure of his mouth, the light warmth of his hands…

“Ahem,” _Señora_ Marina says bringing them back. Héctor pulls away and Imelda lets him, pressing the mango into his hands and straightening his collar.

“Nice to see you, _m_ _úsico_ ,” _Señora_ Marina says. “Our Imelda missed you.”

“Did she?” Héctor says, having the audacity to look surprised.

“A little.” She smiles at him, picking a stray hair from his shoulder. “Now go.”

“ _Ay_ , how can I go with my heart so full of light!” he says dramatically, resting the mango against his chest. “She missed me!”

“A little,” _Señora_ Marina adds with a twitching smile and Vita giggles.

“A little!” Héctor says, staggering against the stove and then just as quickly away from it. She presses a hand over her mouth to keep the giggle in.

“Don’t burn yourself up, _idiota!_ I won’t miss you more than that!”

“Then I’ll have to take what I can get.” He grins at her around the mango, bowing his head a little so his hair falls across his eyes and the look roots her to the spot. She will throw another mango at him in a second if he doesn’t stop it. It’s either that or fling herself at him and not let up.

“ _Hasta Luego_ , _Señora_ _. Señorita._ Imelda Imelda.”

“ _Hasta Luego, bandito_ ,” she says, brushing out her apron, unable to keep from smiling. “Don’t choke.”

He takes a bite of the mango as if daring himself to do just that and then waves, walking out into the sunlight and humming ‘La Llorona’ under his breath. Imelda fights down the smile. She hates it when he calls her that.

“Not your _m_ _úsico,_ is he?” _Señora_ Marina says while Vita laughs. Imelda lifts her chin and brushes her skirt again, watching his retreating back.

“Maybe a little.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

Imelda sighs as she cleans the fire place in the common room, her hands chilled from the water and the faint draft that blows down the chimney.  Normally she doesn’t like this job; the soot, the grit, the endless scrubbing, the smell of char. Today she likes it even less than usual. She feels out of place somehow. Detached. Annoyed. Behind her she can hear the conversations of the common room, though there are not many this time of day. Lunch is over and people are either sleeping or enjoying the heat and sunshine while they can before the earlier sunset of fall takes it away. The crippled _músico_ is there too, parked by the entrance and playing badly. Each sour note makes her wince and a part of her longs to take the guitar from his hand to either break it or hide it.

She’s restless, even more so than before. Filled with that wanting. Hungry for something she couldn’t even name. Like every visit, Héctor had stirred something new in her like embers in a fire. It had started when she’d woken up alone, chilled because of that cracked window she hadn’t gotten around to paying Corrido for. Already she’d missed the feel of Héctor hand around her waist, his breath in her ear.

Waking up alone, she had felt hollow.

She had felt… lonely.

And more than that, she thinks with a scowl, attacking a particularly grimy spot with the scrub brush, as if that hadn’t been bad enough-- she had felt… _that_  again. That strange ache between her legs. Now with a dampness between her thighs. The _wanting_. Most of it she could blame on the dreams. Of his mouth. Of his hands. Of his warmth on her bare skin and the flash of teeth at the back of her neck. Her face heats a little and she brushes her hair away from her sweating forehead with the back of her wrist.

She had even set Sofia on the floor to try and imagine what it might feel like.  Even in the chill, or maybe because of it, she’d managed to find the sensitive places that she’d washed so often before, but now they’d taken on a new life. It was if her body had started to take a mind of its own, but no sooner had she dared to try lower and felt sin than the cursed bells rang the hour.

She’d been tempted to stay in bed. To continue and forget everything to do with this _posada_. But knowing she had to, she had bullied herself out of bed, annoyed and unfulfilled. She wants to blame Héctor for it. And she does in a way. Here he is living his life out there, playing music, going wherever he wants and stealing her piece by piece like the _bandito_ he is. When had it become this? She wonders, dipping the scrub brush one final time into the filthy water. Where had the annoying _ni_ _ño_ gone? Who was this annoying _hombre_ who had replaced him? And why can’t she get him out of her head?

Perhaps it’s because, other than her boys, she has no one to think of. Except that’s not quite it either. She puts the scrub brush into the empty pail and carries them both out the back entrance, dumping it there and absently watches the black liquid wend its way through the stones in the cobbles. He frustrates her and makes her laugh, makes her angry enough to shake him and makes her want to lean on him and to not let go. He charms her and annoys her …. And when she has time to be with him… when they are alone together with no pressing obligations…

She closes her eyes and remembers that little shaded place just outside of Santa Cecilia, lying there and listening to the river and the mellow sound of his guitar, stomach full of food and mouth with the sweet after taste of wine, feeling the warm sun… _Ay,_ she could have lived in that moment forever. Of just _being_. No. Of being with _him_.

But what does that mean?  What is that feeling? Why does it make her ache like an old memory?

“A feeling so close…” She clamps her lips shut as the song spools out of her. No. She stomps her foot. “Finish it already, _bandito!_ ” she snaps at nothing and no one, grabbing the buckets to put back inside the broom closet. How can she understand herself if that song doesn’t have an end? That song that isn’t a love song? But feels like … like a yearning song? Does he even have time to finish it? He had better.

She marches back into the common room, wrestles the grate back into place and arranges the wood on it, trying to think of another song to sing-- or something to distract her. She can’t think of anything save for that little curl of melody. Those words which hold so much but she can’t wrap her mind around. She grumbles to herself, searching her apron pockets for the matches when the _m_ _úsico_ begins to warble:

 

“ _Nadie sabe viajera_  
_Que tu ausencia he llorado,_  
_Con la dulce esperanza_  
_De que habr_ _ás de tornar._  
_Golondrina viajera,_  
_Yo te habr_ _é de espera_ r”  
 

“Nobody knows, traveler,  
that your absence I have cried  
with the sweet hope  
of your coming back.  
Travelling swallow,  
O will wait for you” 

Imelda stands almost without knowing it and stalks her way to where the _m_ _úsico_ is hunched by the door. He startles when he sees her and nearly drops his guitar on his foot.

“Can you play something else?” she says. Does she have to be chased by that song _everywhere_?

“It’s…very popular, _Se_ _ñorita_ ,” the man says. Of course it is, but only because that Don Sanchez likes it. She doesn’t see anything good about it. Who wants to feel that kind of longing? That kind of _wanting_. Knowing that everything is going to be unfulfilled until that damned swallow returns.

“I am just asking you to play something else,” she says, shifting absently closer as the door opens behind her. “Anything else.”

He seems to pale for some reason. “ _Perdón._ I just want to earn a living.”

“I will _pay_ you.” She doesn’t have much, but if she can have a little peace of mind to sort out her own thoughts… “You _have_ to know another song than… than this!”

“Imelda! Stop badgering the man.”

Her heart jerks into her throat at the sudden voice behind her and before she can turn, his hand falls on her shoulder, bringing with him the smell of cedar and incense; washing over her like a stinging memory. She twists her hands in her skirts as cold sweat goes down the back of her neck.

“Forgive this spirited _ni_ _ña_ , _por favor_ ,” Padre de Léon says and it’s all she can do not to wince. “Imelda.” He squeezes her shoulder, gently, but enough to understand what he wants her to do.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” she murmurs, dropping her eyes, her cheeks flaming with heat, feeling just like a corrected child.

“ _D-de nada_ ,” the _m_ _úsico_ says.

“Feel free to sing whatever you choose,” Padre de Léon says, dropping a peso into the ragged hat at the man’s feet. His eyes widen.

“ _Muchos gracias,_ Padre!”

“Think nothing of it, _mijo_ ,” the padre says, his hand slipping to the back of Imelda’s shoulder to guide her further into the _posada_. People are watching her. Some turn their faces and one or two smirk. She can’t even lift her head. When Padre de Léon comes around to stand in front of her, she can’t look him in the eye, can’t get her gaze above the priest’s collar at his neck.

“Do you have a moment?” he says, voice kind as always, it seems to scrape her insides like grit. “Can we talk?”

She doesn’t want to talk. Why should she talk? Why should she feel ashamed? Had she done anything wrong by leaving? By just asking for a different song? Is it so terrible? She can’t think of why it would be and yet it makes her squirm. She wants to say she has no time. To hide and avoid him. To leave this discussion or whatever it was, for a later day. But that wouldn’t make it go away, would it? Finally, she nods.

“A short one,” she manages. There’s much work left to do and neither the _Señora_ _s_ nor Corrido will be pleased if she’s not prepared for the dinner rush. He sighs, hand dropping from her shoulder and she feels its absence.

“Very well,” he says and she follows him to a nearby table, listening to the muffled tap of his cane against the floor.  A strange emotion roils through her, frustrating in its mystery.

Sadness and anger and a faint happiness and the aching and _longing_ for the sunlit drowsy days in the cleric house, listening to the familiar tap-- remembering when all she wanted to do was to be his maid. Remembering the comfort of hearing it those few days her and the boys were guests in that house, somewhere clean and comfortable and dry, safe from revolutionaries and _banditos_ and _federales._ She remembers how he had always looked on them with kindness. How much he had done for them. How much she had owed him that she could never repay.

And then, no longer needed. Replaced by someone who needed the same compassion. The suggestion that she go somewhere else to work, somewhere far away out in the countryside where neither her boys or Héctor would be able to find her.      

She presses her skirts down behind her, sitting on the rickety chair across from him, then clutches her hands in her lap as she watches his fingers fold against one another on the table. It’s a familiar sight. The black sleeves against his arms, the way he shifts in his chair to give his bad leg a little more room to stretch. She remembers once accidentally seeing the padre’s doctor massage that leg. It had been a shock to see the padre barefoot and the long thinness of his legs, crossed by scars. She remembers the way his head had rested back against the chair, tilted up, eyes closed and she had wanted… something. Though now when she remembers it, it’s not the Padre’s face that is tilting upward, eyes closed.

“First, I have these for you,” he says, distracting her from the memory. He pulls a pair of envelopes, bound in cord, and pushes them across to her. She takes them up eagerly, feeling a thrill of excitement. She doesn’t even have to see the address written on the front to know they are from her brothers. Their handwriting is becoming better, she can’t help but notice. They both write in cursive now, with Filipe more refined but he’s always been the precise one. She presses them to her lips individually. She will save them for tonight when she can enjoy them.

“ _Gracias,_ ” she says, setting the letters in her lap and spreading her hands over them. What are they up to, she wonders. Who have they met. What friends have they made? Are they still happy with their lives? Their great opportunity? Do they miss her as much as she misses them?

“I have to say I’m disappointed in you,” the padre says. The words hit like a slap of cold water to the face, cutting through her thoughts and she’s startled enough to look at him. His pale gray eyes seem like flint. “Look at yourself,” he continues. “Can you really say the life your living now is worth it?”

She is suddenly self-conscious. Of her dirty hands and shabby dress, the one she wore when first arriving in Santa Cecilia, actually, but she’s almost grown out of it and no amount of letting out will make it fit anymore. Her hair is falling from her braid in coils and she must smell like ash and cinders. 

But…. Is it worth it?

What does that even mean? She would be the same if she was at the cleric house or at the estate that the padre had wanted her to go to. The padre is watching her as if he wants an answer and she twitches a shoulder in a shrug, not knowing what else to give him. He sighs once more and lowers his voice.

“Now, Ernesto has told me you’ve fallen on hard times…”

She snorts. De la Cruz knows nothing of her life, nor would he care.

“But that is no excuse to do what you’ve done,” Padre de Léon says. Imelda blinks at him. What she’s done? What has she done except work her fingers to the bone for even a little bit of money that is gone back into this cursed place almost as soon as she has it? He gives her a stern look, as if she should know what he’s talking about. She can’t even imagine. Unless he means that sinful thing earlier, but how can even know about that let alone Ernesto?

The padre lowers his head, eyes on hers, his voice a mere whisper.

“I know you are a prostitute.”

“ _What_?” She’s so surprised she can only stare at him. Padre de Léon holds up a hand.

“Ernesto said you would deny it. But there is some proof. I thought you had more care for Héctor than that to force him to give you money.”

“I didn’t force him!” she snaps. And certainly not for that!

“Regardless, you are leading him down a dangerous path, Imelda; don’t you see that? He is big hearted enough to not see the consequences further down the road and he will be the one to suffer for it.”

Something clicks into place then, like the tumblers of a locked door at the final turn of the key. She doesn’t know what it is. Can’t name it. But it’s like one of those nights where she was sweeping by his office door, seeing the strip of light underneath it, listening to him and Héctor laugh about something-- a something she would never know and never be invited to share.

Well so what?

What did that matter? Her hands clench in her lap.

“And your _hermanitos_ ,” he says with that same iron gentleness.  “Would you shame them so readily?’

“How dare you think I would ever shame my brothers!” She’s standing now, the chair fallen back, her own voice echoing. She doesn’t care. “How dare you accuse me!” He didn’t even think to ask! To seek for her to explain.

“Ernesto has no reason to lie,” he says, calmly. “Sit down, _mija._ ”

She lifts her chin, balling her hands into fists in her skirts.

“No.” She takes a deep breath through her nose, her whole body shaking. “ _Gracias_ for all you’ve done, Padre. Never speak to me again.”

“Imelda,” he says, half rising, but she turns sharply and goes up the stairs loudly, her footfalls clattering in her ears, feeling like she wants to tear something apart or otherwise tear herself.  She storms upstairs, ignoring the man who presses against the wall as she passes, up to her room and slams the door behind her. Once there, she takes a moment to press the letters tenderly on the nightstand, then there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do and she’s reduced to pacing.

How dare that-- that-- he even suggest such a thing! How dare he believe De la Cruz so readily! How dare he think so little of her? Why does she even care? What does it matter? It doesn’t. She wipes her stinging eyes with the back of her hand, then scowls at the smudges on them-- scrubbing the blackness off them in the wash basin. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Not what De la Cruz said. Not what de Léon thinks. Nothing matters. She doesn’t care.

She flicks water off her hands, then turns sharply to grab the little towel. Her elbow clips the wash basin and it crashes to the floor, slopping water over her dress and onto her feet.

“ _Madre mio!_ ”  The bowl is face down on the floor, unbroken, and she has to resist the urge to drive her heel into it, to render to fragments and powder under her feet. She almost wants to do it anyway. Or to grab it and make another jagged hole in that foolish window. Or to overturn the stand it sits on just to hear the sound. She wants to tear the whole _posada_ apart with her hands.

A furry nudge on her ankle distracts her and she sighs down at Sofia, gingerly stepping around the growing puddles to purr against her.

“Come here,” Imelda says, scooping the kitten up and holding her against her shoulder, stroking her fur and the spot between her ears. Sofia purrs, kneading against her shoulder. For a moment Imelda loses herself in the soft warmth of her tiny _ni_ _ña,_ closing her eyes against the mess and ignoring the cold water that is still dripping onto the top of her feet from the hem of her dress.

What did it matter? She thinks to herself as she stares out the window onto the sunlit street, watching some scruffier passersby stumble drunkenly from the shanties. So what if the padre thinks she’s a prostitute. She swallows back the sting and kisses Sofia’s head. It won’t matter to Héctor what he thinks and it won’t matter to her boys. The padre had helped them long ago, and she will be forever grateful, but she had made her decision to leave.

So what was her decision now?

She catches her own milky reflection in the window, barely able to see it with the glancing sun, but enough to admire her face and the way her shoulders rounded. The reflection seems much better than the reality where she could see the ragged edges of the collar and feel the tightness of the dress every time she moved her arms.

Is this worth it?

Padre de Léon had echoed Héctor in that. Is this worth it? This life not so different from the one she left? The one she’d always had? But what else could she do?

The _Tresoro_ …

The word echoes in her mind, sounding as beautiful and unobtainable and precious as such a thing would be. If she went there, even just to go, to be in that atmosphere once again, to listen to him play for a crowd and watch them react—would she even want to return here? And if she didn’t, then what? She would be rootless. Nowhere to go and no certainty of anything to ground her footsteps. A feather in the wind.

She thinks of the twins, rooted as they are-- a place to stay and something to be. She can almost have that here, can’t she? But then she thinks of age spotted hands and long hours of cleaning and scrubbing and cooking. Perhaps even Héctor once in a while until he decided to move on. The thought pinches her and she ignores it.

He is too busy to come visit her right now as always.

But… she can go to him, just this once.

The bells ring the hour, seeming to resonate against something inside her. Some startled birds fly past the window. Swallows for all she knows, a strange knot starting to form high in her chest.

Imelda sets Sofia on the bed, smiling at the kitten’s mewling protest. Hungry maybe, or not ready to be let go.

“I’ll be back soon,” she says, scratching a black stripe between those tiny triangle ears. She changes her dress into the one with embroidered flowers and rebraids her hair until it is sleek once more. On a whim, she plucks up her shawl and wraps it around her shoulders, feeling comfort in the worn wool.

Down the steps then, her footfalls thudding in her ears, down the back way, seeing the warm light of the kitchen before entering it, standing in the doorway. _Señora_ Lola is there, stirring something on the stove. Vita has begun the preparations for making tortillas and on the table is the basket of vegetables and the sharp gleaming knife for Imelda to begin the endless process of cutting. Her eyes are drawn to the open shutters, light splashing on the wall of the opposite building and glinting off the windows like faint freckled reflections of a run away river.

 _Señora_ Lola growls at her, something about getting to work, and for a moment reminds Imelda of _Tia Superiora._ She is thirteen-years-old and in the _convento_ , her hands damp from scouring stone, the window bringing in fresh, exciting breezes. She crosses the room to brace her hands on the sill, to stare out into the day. Does she _dare_? Can she? Can she even come back here if she does? Will she even want to?

“Where do you think are you going?” _Señora_ Lola says, pulling her back just a little. She can feel the dimness of the kitchen behind her. The warmth and safety of it. Outside a bird sings in a rising note. The evening is coming. She turns slightly, to catch Vita’s eye, to give the _niña_ a quick apologetic smile. Then, before she can change her mind, hauls herself up onto the windowsill, swings her legs over and after a breath, slides down the other side.

Her shoes hit the ground with a thump. The sun shines warm on her skin. The sky above is blue.

She wants to _grito._ She wants to dance.

She is free.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to my Moony and my Effie~ A special shout out to my favorite orangutan; (you know who you are) and a very Merry Christmas to all my lovely readers and commenters. Thanks for sticking with me this far. I love all of you.


	11. Historia de Imelda: Golondrina Viajera P. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom is never easy and choices, even good ones, have consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Animal death

Imelda presses herself against a wall, clutching the shawl at her neck. San Menas sprawls around her in a flurry of mess and noise and crowds and smells. This is _La Gran Plaza-_ though really a jumble of smaller plazas connected by winding streets. Shops and stalls and cantinas and restaurants and stables and the occasional _posada_ stand hip to jowl. The old woman who had given her directions to the _Tresoro_ had told her that this was the heart of San Menas. The truth of San Menas before the railroad had come. Not a destination, she’d said, but a journey. Imelda isn’t sure she understands exactly. Though it does seem like a heart, thudding with movement. People and animals and carts flood this way and that, and even above this, the bells of the church sound somber in the distance, marking the time.

She breathes in deeply, trying to calm the dizzying nerves that make her head spin. She feels lost in this river of people, in danger of being swallowed up by them. She misses the quietness of Santa Cecilia streets, where even the busiest times are nothing compared to this. She even misses the simplicity of the _Fuente de Gallo_ and the road stretching back to-- to what? Not home. Not anything really. A time which she felt more certain…

Here she feels uprooted, like a feather spiraling in the wind. Nowhere to go and nowhere safe to land. Only her pride keeps her from going straight back to the _Ultima_ , to join in dinner preparations; to throw herself back into those endless working days and waiting-- always waiting-- always _wanting_. She hadn’t even paid Corrido for the window yet. What if he pushes her out? Or if _Se_ _ñora_ Lola convinces him to? Or even Padre de Léon for all she knows?  Her stomach sours at the thought and she glances back the way she had come. If she hurries she might make it in time. But no amount of hurrying will stop _Se_ _ñora_ Lola from being smug about it, from giving Imelda some punishing chore or another for having gone out. She may even cut her wages.

So… what? Does that mean she’s going to turn back? To go crawling back to the _posada_? To let that woman have her way? No! Imelda stomps her foot, tugging the shawl more firmly over her head. No, she refuses. She pushes away from the wall, taking a moment to get her bearings, and then plowing ahead. Even if ends badly, even if she gets turned out, at least she’ll have earned the punishment and not just because _Se_ _ñora_ Lola bullied her.

Imelda holds onto this pride, gripping it tight in her mind and tries not to think of anything else, and the what-ifs after, as she makes her way through the crowded streets, dodging here and squeezing there, only pausing to scowl at a merchant who shoves a string of beads in her face as she goes too near his stall. He jerks his hand back as if he’s been bit and she continues on her way.

The worries gnaw at her, chase at her heels, she picks up her pace so that she is almost running. Though the old woman’s directions had been clear, she still finds herself losing her way more than once because of this, every backtrack growing the knot of irritation in her throat. Even so, it’s not long until she finally finds herself in the entrance of the _Plaza del Coraz_ _ón_ , a place with green growing things in patches here and there, an elegant fountain in the very center and even more elegant buildings, two stories high all around, with iron railings. She is face to face with the _Tresoro,_ on the other side of the plaza. The cantina is large, fronted by three graceful arches and the name is spelled in yellow-gold paint over them with a bold sweeping hand.

She glares at it, breathing hard. A cool breeze stirs the hair at her temples and she realizes the shawl has fallen off her head. She clutches it around her shoulders, taking comfort in it. Raising her chin, she comes closer, listening to the distant roar of the crowd coming through the open windows. The roar quiets and a flutter of nerves go through her as the sound of a guitar playing ‘ _Buena Suerte_ _’_ comes through.

It’s Héctor.

Or at least she thinks it is. It’s her first thought. The first instinct that thrills down her spine. The way the music carries warm, the complex little melodies he slips in. Imelda eagerly moves closer to listen. She had almost forgotten that he would be there. But he is. He is there-- and she will get to see him and sit with him and watch him and no one can pull her away.

Her heart lightens at every step closer and her nerves tangle too. It’s exciting, energizing.

 Soon.

_Soon._

And then all of her happiness drops into her stomach as De la Cruz begins to sing, his rich voice filling the air; completely inescapable.

 _Ay._ She clenches her fingers together, staring blankly at the archway. Of course he is here. _Of course_ he is here. He will always be here, she tells herself. Reminds herself. Either right in front of her or in the background; waiting, whining. De la Cruz won’t be happy that she’s come. He will be rude or say things just to get under her skin. Not that she cares what he thinks or does. But Héctor cares. He always cares. And, if she goes in to meet him, he will once again be a fish caught between two lines.

 Imelda sighs and leans against the wall, wondering what she should do-- Perhaps she should leave, she thinks, looking at her fingers against the worn gray of her skirt. Héctor isn’t expecting her after all and he won’t miss her if she isn’t there.

 _Sí_.

It’s for the best if she goes, and so she shall.

After this song.

She closes her eyes, listening mostly to De la Cruz, and the drunken voices of men inside the cantina. She can hear Héctor just underneath and has to admit that it works well. De la Cruz has voice good enough to draw people in, but it is Héctor’s playing that gives the song life.

The song ends, and she opens her eyes once more, watching the red-orange of the sky, the wheeling of the birds as they go home to roost. She listens to ‘ _San Menas_ _’_ that should be ‘ _Santa Cecilia_ _’, ‘La Negra’_ , ‘ _Cielito Lindo_ _’_ , “ _El Burro de Padre_ _”_ … Often other _m_ _úsicos_ join in with a harp or a _guitarron_ or violin, even singing along, though De la Cruz thunders over them and she can always hear Héctor’s playing just underneath. Sometimes his laugh or _grito_ will ring out and she has to stop herself from responding with her own like some foolish bird. The first stars start to appear before De la Cruz asks laughingly for a break.

They make a good team, Héctor and De la Cruz. Like her boys, they are in sync. Matched well. When they play and sing, they form something more, something worth reaching for. She draws an aimless pattern with her fingertips, trying to push away the aching feeling. Who is she to come between that? Perhaps Padre de Léon is right and Héctor is better without her. She can live without him. Of course she can. She doesn’t need him or anything. What would she need him for?

She will see him one last time, she decides. Just the once.  Since she’s already here. She will see him and then be on her way to wherever, whatever. He won’t miss her for long, but he won’t easily let her go—The thought touches a warmth within her and she quickly pushes it to the side.

 No.

He mustn’t see her.

She mustn’t give into the temptation to draw his attention or she might not be able to leave either.

Imelda brushes the wrinkles from her skirts and touches up her hair the best she can. This skirt is getting too short too, she realizes, and is more threadbare than she remembers. _Ay_ , she is a mess.

But it won’t matter because he won’t see her.

Still, she pulls the shawl over her head and turns through the archway, noticing the lamps are lit; warm yellow beacons inviting her inside. Imelda takes a deep breath before pushing open the door a sliver and sneaking in as narrowly as she can manage.

 No one so much as notices her, but she’s not surprised as she’s met with a wall of broad backs, wearing dingy white shirts and dull _sarapes,_ despite the cantina being thickly hot with people and the roar of conversation. Everything smells of sweat and beer. She has to move along the wall to find a place where she can see over the men’s shoulders.

Even with her limited view, it’s easy to notice that every table is occupied, every chair too. There are mostly men, but some women are here as well, looking like colorful birds in bright makeup and brighter dresses, their hair done up with flowers. One side of the room is filled with important looking men in foreign suits, coats slung back over chairs and the buttons gleaming on their expensive looking vests. Ruiz is there too, she notes with a twitch of irritation. As well as his friend. They will not see her either, she decides; if only because she doesn’t want to have to look into their faces as they leer at her.

De la Cruz is standing by the bar, arms folded and grinning fondly at Héctor who is talking animatedly to a man resting his cheek against his harp. She is too far away to hear the conversation, but she can’t help but smile as Héctor’s hands move in broad circles as he speaks. He laughs at something the harpist says and _that_ sound she hears; rising above all the others, rich and wonderful. She wants to go over and take his hand and listen—Wants to make him laugh again.

If she does, the moment will be ruined, she tells herself. If she does, Héctor will just frown again and all this enchantment will shake apart.  

It isn’t fair. Imelda wants to stomp her foot like a child and go in anyway, to stand beside Héctor to De la Cruz and fight him tooth and nail if she has to. Is it really asking too much to just be with him? Is she really so wrong to want that? Is it too selfish? Imelda clenches and unclenches her hands in her skirts, wishing she could find an answer in herself.

“It’s too quiet in here!” a man in a vest roars over the noise, immediately dimming it. “We need music!” There are a few cheers for this. A man near her whistles shrilly through his teeth, while a woman cries: “Music! Music!” Héctor laughs.

“ _Ay_ , you’re going to run my fingers to the bone.”

No one is saying _he_ has to play, Imelda thinks. Though she knows he will. With a mix of pride and irritation she watches him drag himself into the center of the room and flop on the chair there with an exaggerated groan, hands hanging down, prompting laughs.

“ _Viva_ , Héctor!” a man shouts. Héctor flops a hand, slumping even further, the guitar on the verge of sliding right out of his lap.

“ _Viva_ , Héctor!” A few more men call. Héctor lazily cups a hand against his ear.

“Eh? Did you guys say something?”

“ _Viva_ , Héctor!” the room fairly roars, and Imelda has to cover a laugh with her hand as he leaps out of his chair, sending it crashing back against the floor.

“ _YAHEY!_ That’s more like it!” He plays an energetic chord and a cheer rolls through the room and he laughs. “With a blessing like that, it’ll be a long time before I can cross the marigold bridge.”

 “With your luck you’d fall right off it,” De la Cruz says over the noise.

There is a ripple of laughter at that and she has to smile. But it’s a cheap laugh. It’s easy to tease him, to call him a _tonto_ and an _idiota_ because he is careless. Because he’s bony with a ridiculous nose and large ears and a ready smile. She moves along the wall, trailing her fingers against it, watching him over shoulders and through the gaps between arms. But he is clever too. He is still that _ni_ _ño_ who was in and out of trouble and dragging her _hermanitos_ with him; the one with the clever words and clever fingers and the deep understanding of something she can’t name.

But who else is he? In this world of his own, outside of hers, in the company of his _amigos_ and his audience. Who is he really when she isn’t there? She wants to know. She has to know. Curiosity keeps her where she is, but she has enough sense to stay by the wall, still hidden. Still invisible from most.

Héctor tunes the guitar and plays an unfamiliar little melody that runs happy fingers up her spine. Once he’s satisfied, he strolls around playing to the audience, the happy little tune dancing from his fingers. His expression changes like water as he goes, making ridiculous faces at the men and wiggling his eyebrows at the women when he plays something sweet.

Imelda holds her breath as he starts to turn her way. If he looks at her, she will melt. If his eyes meet hers, she will have no choice but to join him out there, dance with him, be drawn into that gaze.

The man with the _guitarrón_ begins to play, distracting him and making him look back with a grin. Imelda relaxes, feeling both relieved and annoyed at this. She takes the time to duck back into the shadows. The _guitarrónista_ continues playing a melody underneath Héctor’s own that seems to strengthen it—or perhaps it gives Héctor room to play. His fingers dance over the strings, the melody become even more complex.

 _Ay,_ she can’t stay still. She doesn’t want to stay still. So long as she’s careful, it’s fine. Imelda sways her skirts, then turns as best she can, her feet moving on their own, finding the rhythm as easy as breathing. It is wonderful, but it is not enough. Like having only a dipperful of water on a hot, thirsty day.

More importantly, it is the birth of a song and she is missing it. Caught on the outside. She can almost _feel_ the song just out of reach, hovering on the feather edges of becoming. Especially as the harp begins to add light tones overhead, making the tune sweet and playful. She wishes she knew the words, that there _were_ words-- that she could pull them out of the air herself and sing them. She almost expects them to curl into the air and sing themselves. But the song is drawing to an end and she can feel that too. She wants it to keep going, until she understands it, until it is part of her and running under her skin like wine.  Until she can join in, add her voice or the movements of her body.

No matter her wishes, the song ends anyway, as without her as it started, winding down to appreciative silence. Imelda stills, fighting the disappointment, and opens her eyes, not even realizing she’d closed them. There is a rumble of applause and cheers and she watches Héctor startle a little as if his eyes had been closed as well and he’d only just remembered there had been people in the room.

“ _Bien,_ _”_ De la Cruz says. “Now play something we can all sing to.”

Another ripple of laughter around the room and Héctor laughs too but Imelda frowns, annoyed. Does De la Cruz always do this? Perhaps it’s nothing. She folds her arms. It’s not as if he’s insulted Héctor, but it feels denigrating somehow. Like he was making that wonderful music feel cheap.

“Any requests?” Héctor says.

“ _’Golondrina Viajera’,_ ” Ruiz calls at the same moment one of the bird women speaks, but her voice is quiet and Imelda doesn’t hear her over him.

“What was that?” Héctor asks the woman, leaning in.

“’L _a Peque_ _ña Fuente,”_ The woman says, only a little louder.

“A song for _ni_ _ños_?” De la Cruz says.

“ _S_ _í,_ but everyone was a _ni_ _ño_ once, Nesto. And this is practically a San Menas tradition.” He strums a few chords. “Do you want to sing it with me?” he asks the woman, giving her a kind smile.

She shakes her head, ducking back against the arm of the man standing beside her and Héctor picks a little apologetic tune, which turns into a simple, charming, melody.

He sings:

“ _Los tres padres cansados.  
_ _Donde van nadie sabe  
_ _Todos son dolor de coraz_ _ón y llanto.  
_ _Y necesito encontrar un nuevo hogar_.”

 “The three weary padres,  
Where they’re going, nobody knows  
They are all heartsore and weeping  
And need to find a new home.”

 

“ _Ayiyi,_ ” the _guitarrónista_ cries.

“Come on, I know most of you guys know it,” Héctor says. “Sing with me.”

 

“ _La fuente, la fuente. Ay, donde esta la fuente  
_ _Donde el agua corre brillante y dulce  
_ _Est_ _á aquí?  
_ _Est_ _á ahí?  
_ _Est_ _á en el aire?  
_ _Necesitan algo de bebe_ _”_

“The fountain, the fountain. Oh, where is the fountain  
Where the water runs bright and sweet  
Is it here?  
Is it there?  
Is it up in the air?  
They need something to drink”

 

Other voices pick up the song, some good, some terrible, some well on their way to being drunk. Even the woman sings along though Imelda can’t hear her clearly over the noise of the others, De la Cruz especially.

The song unfolds about these poor padres, lost in the wilderness, dying of thirst. They nearly give up and succumb, until they decide to pray. When they do, a mysterious camel appears to show them to a little bubbling stream. And so San Menas is founded.

 She’s surprised Héctor knows this song so well. Not just that he can sing it but that he knows _of_ it. She wants to sing it too, at least the chorus, but knows that he’ll hear her and so keeps silent; instead watching him dance about the room and encourage others to sing by leaning in and nudging them with his shoulder or wiggling his eyebrows at them.

He isn’t any different, she realizes, folding her arms and leaning against the wall, resting her head against a post as she watches him. This world Héctor and her world Héctor are the exact same. Kind and attentive and clever and a little bit of an _idiota_ to push himself so hard. She can see the sweat shining on his face and dampening his shirt.

She wants to make him sit down and drink something himself. She imagines herself handing him a glass of beer, or a bottle of wine, or even a dipper of cool clear water. She imagines him drinking it, one hand around her waist while a trail slips free from his mouth and drips down carelessly. She wants to kiss him after, and to suck the wet from his lips and for him to kiss her.

 _Madre mio,_ she needs to get her head out of the clouds! Imelda pats her cheeks, trying to get herself to focus. She is here just to watch and observe, not to grab his attention!

Though she can, she knows. Just by walking out onto the floor, she can make him stop in his tracks. Maybe he won’t stop playing or even singing, but his eyes will be on her. He will follow her wherever she goes, like a fish on a hook. She is trying to avoid hooking him, she tells herself sternly. That’s how he becomes miserable.

 But _ay,_ what a feeling! What a thing to know! To be sure of. Whatever else, wherever she ends up after this foolish night, she will know that for certain.

Perhaps she can, one last time. To grab his attention—To keep it all for herself.

No. She won’t.

Or perhaps she can sing. Just sing.  Even though, if she sings, he will spot her. If she moves, he will spot her. She wants him to spot her.

Only no, he can’t! Especially not with De la Cruz here.

And, _ay_ , what if De la Cruz himself spots her? It will be just the same result! Perhaps even worse.

She casts about for somewhere to sit to be out of sight, then immediately changes her mind at the thought of it. No. She will leave before she cowers like a dog. She won’t have Héctor be hurt, but she won’t hide and cringe because of what De la Cruz might think or do. In fact, it’s his fault for always being such a _cabron_ when she just wants to be with Héctor. Just wants to exist with him.

Is that wrong?

Is it?

It feels good, but so does sin.

Is Padre de Léon right?

But why should _he_ control her life either? She had made the decision to be away from him!

Only Héctor can’t continue to be pulled between them like this.

Except _she_ feels as if she’s being pulled apart just trying to figure out what was to be done.

Fine.

She will leave.

She had come to see, and she had seen and been satisfied, and now she will return to the _posada_ and figure out what to do from there. A wave of laughter and applause and cheers startles her, telling her the song is done and she is annoyed she missed the rest of it. It doesn’t matter. She twitches her skirts into her fingers and raises her head one last time to see Héctor.

And the _idiota_ is looking right at her. Even as she is behind a line of _hombres_ and half in the shadows, he sees her; or thinks he does which is close enough. She knows that look, his eyes wide, his chest heaving a bit from exertion. It’s not fair. It isn’t! How can anyone resist that look? The way his expression warms into something that makes her ache. She folds her arms to try to shield against it, but his eyes just seem to crinkle even more.

He is like a fish that keeps jumping back into the pan to be cooked! She wants to march up to him and press her hand over his eyes, but then his mouth will be so close, and he is so difficult to not want to devour. He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, as if asking her why she is angry, but she can’t explain it to him. Not here. Not now.

He plucks the vocals of ‘ _La Llorona_ _’,_ still watching her. Another question, it feels like. Does she want to sing? Does she want to come out? No, and _s_ _í._ She wants to leave. She wants to lure him into her shadows and pin him against the wall. She wants to go out into his world--

“That song?” De la Cruz says. “This is a _fiesta_ , not a funeral.”

And now she knots both hands into her skirt because if she doesn’t she will smack that _cabron_ upside the head with her shoe. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come. If she even opens her mouth now it will be to snarl at De la Cruz like an angry cat and that won’t help anyone. She heads for the door then, shouldering a man out of her way. Before the door closes, she hears Héctor say he’s going to take a break and, in her mind, viciously tells him not to. He had better not. She is trying to get away.

At least the night is blessedly cold and almost chill on her sweat soaked face. She stomps her way from the _Tresoro_ and is just out of the archways when:

“Imelda!”

“ _Ayy._ ” She throws her hands in the air. “Why can’t you ever stay put?” She snaps, rounding on him. “Why can’t you ever do what I say?”

“What?” He holds up his hands. “But you didn’t say any--” The words end in a grunt against her mouth as she yanks him down to kiss him, fingers tangled in his collar. It doesn’t help. Now she’s angry _and_ she wants to climb him like a tree. The precious guitar at his back is the only thing preventing her from pressing him against the wall to block his escape so she can kiss him blind.

That will also not solve anything. And in fact will make it worse.

Frustrated, she pulls away and tells her fingers to let go of his collar, but they don’t seem to want to listen right now. Héctor blinks at her.

“That was nice, but Iii’m a little confused.”

“You think _you_ are!” she snaps, finally managing to let go. She doesn’t even know what to _do_ with herself. But it’s not _his_ fault, exactly. He’s just being who he is. She can’t take it out on him. “ _Ay_. Forget it. Just-- I’m just-- I _can_ _’t_ \--” Where are the damned _words!_

“Hey, breathe,” he says, cupping her cheek and she hates it and she loves it and her feelings go in a whirlwind. She breathes. In and out, in and out. He breathes slower, exaggerated, as if he wants her to follow and she does-- Takes deep breaths and lets them free; feeling calmer. The anger hasn’t fled but it’s not choking her either.

“What’s wrong?” he says, thumb brushing against her skin. She shakes her head. Turns from him. Folds her arms. Even though she’s calmer she’s not sure how to express it in a way that makes any sense. He lets out a breath and then, tentatively, his hands slip against her waist. She doesn’t stop him even if she should. Even when his arms wrap around her and he’s against her from behind, his chin on her head as if it was always meant to be there. She can feel the guitar strap against her back, the length of him and the damp heat. She watches the fountain in the distance, the light from the half moon catching and glinting in the water.

“ _Ay_ ,” Héctor sings softly. She narrows her eyes.

“Héctor…” she says warningly.

“ _De mi,_ Imelda, Imelda,” he continues, swaying them back and forth. “Imelda of the sweet voice.”

That-- How dare he say-- He thinks her voice is sweet? She knows she is able to sing well, but that he thinks its sweet? That anything about her could be—No.

No, she won’t let him do this to her.

“Stop that,” she says, but can’t put any kind of force behind it at all.

“ _Ay de mi,_ Imelda, Imelda. Imelda you leave me no choice.” His chin moves from her head and she knows where he’s going next.

“Héctor, don’t you-- _ay!_ ” She squeaks and has nowhere to go as his voice curls in her ear, whisper soft and tickling madly.

“My heart flies when I hear you, Imelda. You make the flowers bloom.”

“I do not…” She should pull away, but her legs are too weak, her face is too hot. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.

“My heart flies when I see you, Imelda. You’re more beautiful than the mmmh” Unable to pull away she twists in his arms and kisses him instead. He returns it this time, his mouth soft over hers. Her hands move on her own, over his shoulders, tangling and sliding in his sweat damp hair, tugging at it lightly. His hands are on her back now, light enough she can pull away easily only they keep her there, melding her against him like they are two parts of the same dough.

It’s not fair…

How is she… Supposed to… Supposed to do anything?

“Do you want to come in and sing with me, Imelda, Imelda,” he murmurs against her mouth. _S_ _í._ She wants to sing. She wants to sing better than De la Cruz. Better than anyone. Sing his heart into her hand. She kisses him again instead. He returns it, then kisses the corner of her mouth, the line of her jaw. Horrible man. _Horrible_ man.

“It’ll be fun,” he says.

“Someone will be ah… annoyed…” She doesn’t want that _cabron_ _’s_ name in her mouth while Héctor is moving to her neck because he is cheating and it is _horrible_.

“Let him be.” Another kiss, lower, beneath her ear and she grips his hair. She _can_ _’t_ let him be. More importantly, _he_ can’t let him be. A whimper escapes her as his other hand comes up to cup the back of her neck underneath the shawl. It’s so big. She feels caught against it. She feels safe against it. She tugs at the back of his hair again.

She can’t sing, she reminds herself. She can’t because…because…

“You’ll…you’ll do that… make that face… That… that _lo siento_ face…”

“I won’t.”

“You _will_.” She squeaks and then sucks in air through her teeth when he finds that spot. She clutches his shoulder, trying not to dig in with her nails and tugs his head away.

“No… No, no, you can’t do that…” She cups his face between her hands, meaning this, resting her forehead against his. “You can’t do that and stop. You always stop. His brow creases and he sucks his lower lip a moment, endearingly. When did she find him so endearing? She wants to lean in and kiss him again but doesn’t dare.

“ _Lo siento,_ Imelda… But if …if I keep going…”

If he keeps going… Where else would he kiss…? _What_ else would he kiss? She wants to tell him of the sin she found. She wants to dare him to find it himself. She wants to feel his hands everywhere and hot breath dancing.

“I hate to interrupt,” De la Cruz says dryly, his voice freezing through her. “But we are getting paid for a different kind of performance.” She opens her eyes to see him leaning against the arch way, arms folded, backlit and his face impossible to read but she makes sure he can read hers.

She remembers what he’d said.

What he’d told the padre.

Héctor straightens, blocking her view of him and giving her the _lo siento_ look. She puts her fingers over his mouth before he can say anything. She doesn’t want to hear it. He sighs, as if realizing he is wearing that expression, but can’t seem to make it go away.

“Come in with me,” he murmurs. “Do whatever you want just… I want to be with you.”

“ _Idiota,_ ” she says, tired all of a sudden, but warmed too and pulled as if in a net. For a moment she wonders just which one of them is the fish. Héctor smiles a little.

“For you? I’m the biggest _idiota_ in México.”

She sighs and strokes his cheek. It’s so impossible with him. Everything is so impossible. He is searching her face for something, but she doesn’t know what.

“Let her come,” says De la Cruz and she wishes he would just go away. Héctor rolls his eyes. “Might as well,” the _cabron_ continues. “Her _amigas_ are here already.”

“ _Amigas?_ ” Héctor looks at her and she shakes her head. She has no idea what he means but …but she’s… never really had an _amiga_ to begin with… Maybe whatever De la Cruz meant doesn’t matter, because she still feels like he probably wants her to as he disappears back into the cantina and shuts the door.

“ _Ay_.” Héctor runs a hand through his hair, then scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll understand if you just want to go home.”

A hollow opens up inside her. Home… What does that even mean? Where is such a place? She pushes those thoughts away. All this is _enough_ for one evening. She had been going to see and leave, but now she can’t leave him here alone. Doesn’t want to. She won’t be the one going out into the dark. Instead she takes his hand in hers.

“I’m with you,” she says. His eyes widen in that stunned expression she knows so well. Then a slow _loco_ grin lights his face and eyes and he sucks in a breath. She can feel his _grito_ coming and puts a hand over his mouth to stop it.

“Wait until this evening isn’t a disaster,” she says. His breath leaves him in a gush and the sadness in his eyes is horrible to look at.

 _Sorrow and that which is not sorrow, Llorona. Everything is sorrow for me._ The lyrics sing in her head and she pushes them away too.

“It won’t be,” Héctor says, kissing her palm. “I promise.”

 _Ay,_ his promises were like the stars; beautiful to look at, impossible to reach. But that he kept trying anyway…. What is she to do with such a man? The only thing that occurs to her is to take him by the hand and lead him back into the _cantina_ , and that is what she does.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Perhaps she should have gone back after all, Imelda thinks, arms folded as she watches Héctor play ‘ _La Cucaracha_ _’_ in the center of the room with the other _m_ _úsicos._ De la Cruz is singing as usual, strolling around the room and leaning in to every bird woman who seems to enjoy the attention. If he tried it with her, she’d have to resist the temptation to bite his nose off, but he is smart enough not to come near her, though he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the tables on the edges, mostly in shadow.

Where she is.

Again.

It was fine to be in the shadows when Héctor didn’t know she was there, when she wanted to hide; now she wants to sing and to dance catch his attention. She wants to watch his eyes on her, then ignore them to tease him, before coming right back to be caught in that breathless moment. She wants him to try and impress her and she wants to impress him. Even if she doesn’t do any of that, just to be nearer to him, to be in that circle in the center. Even if she just perches on the bar behind him or sits next to him, that would be enough.

But…she’s here. At a table in the corner, with a tankard of beer to call her own, but it’s tasteless and bitter. Or perhaps that’s just the thoughts in her head poisoning her tongue. She doesn’t _have_ to be sitting here. Héctor doesn’t want her to be there either. She can tell by the way his smile is tight at the corners and how he keeps throwing glances her way as if he longs to come to sing to her or is asking for her to come dance with him.

And, oh, she would…

And, oh, she wants to…

But she knows if she tries, De la Cruz will find another way to needle them. She doesn’t care what he says, how can she? But it will upset Héctor or frustrate him and De la Cruz doesn’t seem to care about either so long as he gets his way. It’s not fair and she hates it. Hates to be the one who has to ignore him, who has to sit out of the way and get out of the way. Or to be the one to give up a little ground just so Héctor can have peace of mind.

Still, maybe there is no peace of mind to be had for him, she thinks, looking at the beer between her hands. Even when she has him all to herself, a part of his worry will always lie with De la Cruz. She wouldn’t ask his _hermano_ to leave. She can’t. But then, the alternative is…

The song ends and Héctor collapses in the chair with a dramatic flop, startling as it slides and making everyone laugh including himself. Sweat shines on his forehead and drips down his jaw. She watches him wipe it off with his sleeve and wants to wipe it off herself; with a soft cloth, perhaps and cool water. Would he like that, she wonders. Would his head tilt back against her and his eyes close? Almost as if he can hear her thoughts, his head rolls toward her, his eyes open and he watches her under his lashes. She watches him back, watching him under hers. His smile becomes warm and lazy and he raises his hand, as if touching her with the backs of his fingers.

She presses her lips together and hunches her shoulders, wanting to return the gesture but knowing that it would be a bad idea. This is difficult enough already.

Héctor’s smile fades and he blows out a breath, as if frustrated himself.

Maybe there is no peace of mind to be had for him, she thinks, looking at the beer between her hands. Even when she has him all to herself, a part of his worry will always lie with De la Cruz. She wouldn’t ask his _hermano_ to leave. She can’t. But then, the alternative is…

 ‘ _La Llorona_ ’ drifts through the air and she looks up at him, trying to glare. He smiles and changes his grip on the guitar, playing another song, _that_ song. The song she only knows two maddening lines to and yet her own feelings reach out, begging to be named. The melody is all there at least and seems tighter somehow as if he’s been practicing. She longs to dance to just that; to close her eyes and let it flow through her.

“ _Amigo,_ you can’t practice new music here, _”_ De la Cruz says with a laugh and she wants to slap him. “Especially if I’m not ready for people to hear it,” he says, in the joking serious tone, raising his eyebrows. There isn’t much laughter at this and Héctor just flaps a hand at him as if he’s too tired to argue.

“Let’s send up the evening with something everyone can sing to,” De la Cruz says, a sly smile crossing his face as his eyes meet hers. “’Juanita’, perhaps?”

“Nah,” Héctor replies. “It’s not that kind of _fiesta_. We need to sing something with a little… _warmth_ to it. Something sweet.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her as he says it, as if this song is going to be just for her. She ducks her head, feeling a flush spread over her cheeks. It’s horrible how he does this. How is she even supposed to reply to it? To feel about it? Except to want it. To fall into it. She trails her fingers along the tankard just to touch something and dares to look up at him, but the fond look on his face-- _Ay._ It’s terrible.

“If you suggest ‘ _La Llorona_ _’_ I’m going to make you eat your guitar,” De la Cruz says, and he sounds so annoyed that even Imelda has to laugh a little at that, even if she hates it. Héctor laughs too and a mischievous expression steals over his face as he looks at her. She leans forward, wondering what he’s going to suggest.

“’ _Golondrina_ _’,_ ” says the older man in the expensive looking vest, slurring horribly. “ _Por favor_.” But it doesn’t really sound like a request. Immediately, Héctor is giving her a tired, wincing look. A _lo siento_ face.  

Imelda tries to fight the sudden sting at this. She shouldn’t have expected… She shouldn’t’ve… It doesn’t matter. Héctor is here to play for others and the those who pay are the ones that choose the songs. It’s just how it is. She tries to smile, to let him know it’s alright, but can only nod and sip her beer, not daring to look in his eyes.  

“ _El Jefe_ speaks,” De la Cruz says with surprising tenderness, and she can see out of the corner of her eye, his hand on Héctor’s shoulder. It’s as if he understands. It frustrates her for reasons she can’t name. If he _understands_ Héctor, then why--? If he cares for him then why--? Maybe it’s just her he doesn’t like. Maybe her presence stirs things up somehow. Even if she’s done nothing to him maybe it doesn’t matter. She drinks her tasteless beer, trying to hide her face so Héctor can’t see her expression, and maybe she succeeds because he just says:

“ _El Jefe_ knows what he’s talking about.” In a tired way. She looks up just in time to see him shake himself out a bit. “Alright, _muchachos._ Last song of the night! Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got!”

Despite his cheerful voice, the song seems even sadder than before. Or maybe he’s just tired, she thinks as she closes her eyes, trying to…to accept it somehow. This situation. De la Cruz’s voice. The gnawing feeling that she’s causing this somehow. She listens to the words, though they hurt for a different reason now; a reason that she can’t understand; and tells herself soon this damned song will end.

 A chair scrapes against the floor behind her as if someone just sat down, and she tries to ignore the biting irritation, hoping that whoever it is doesn’t want to talk to her.

“Rivera’s a talented man for a _tonto_ ,” says Ruiz from behind her, making the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. “You must be worried about him.”

She always is. In a thousand little ways.

“Why should I be?” she says, eyes still closed even as she feels the heat of someone else standing beside her. Probably his friend. She hates that heat and the chills that go through her, but won’t let on, won’t give them the pleasure.

“Well San Menas is a dangerous place,” Ruiz says, echoing De la Cruz and giving her another, deeper chill. His friend chuckles and she clenches her jaw. “In San Menas, people need to understand who their _compadres_ are.”

She hates that word as he says it. As if he and Héctor are friends. As if they look out for one another. As if their fate is bound together somehow. She wishes she knew how to protect Héctor from it, to pull him as far away from Ruiz as she can. She says nothing. Does nothing. Keeps her eyes closed even as the heat of Ruiz’s friend seems to grow and she is tempted to dump her beer over him. Ruiz leans forward, pitching his voice low.

“Men like that,” he says in a murmur, almost a purr, and she can hear the faint scrape of her nails against the tankard as she resists the urge to elbow him in the face. “They’ll listen to their women. Something to keep in mind, eh?”

“If you _can_ keep him,” says Ruiz’s friend with a snicker. Ruiz makes a sharp hissing sound, like someone trying to heel a dog. Imelda opens her eyes. The song ended at some point and she can see Héctor sitting in the chair, talking to the bird woman he had encouraged to sing as she smiles and swishes her skirts. De la Cruz is leaning nearby, grinning at this and Imelda narrows her eyes, an old hot anger furling through her.

“Don’t mind my _amigo, Se_ _ñorita,”_ Ruiz is saying. “I’m sure that--”

“Don’t talk to me,” she says, getting up. She needs something to do or she _will_ slap De la Cruz with her shoe. How _dare_ he? She can barely talk to Héctor for two seconds before he’s speaking up and driving them apart. She can barely touch Héctor without De la Cruz rolling his eyes. And there he was, smiling, looking _pleased_. She can’t figure out why and she doesn’t want to _have_ to; but she knows if she goes up there Héctor will just have to stand between them again, so she will simply--

Simply just forget it. Push it aside. De la Cruz is always going to hate her and that’s the way it is and she will surpass it. So, she will go up there and be with Héctor and somehow … somehow rise above his presence.

As she comes nearer the center of the room, she spots a platter of food on a nearby table, abandoned now that people are starting to leave the cantina. The food is probably cold by now but there are some _enchiladas_ and _quesadillas_ on it that should be good regardless. Her stomach growls and she wonders how long Héctor has gone without food.

She takes the plate, and then comes to where he is sitting, dragging a chair abandoned by one of the _m_ _úsicos_ and setting it beside him.

“I can’t help but dance when you play…” the bird woman is saying and trails off for some reason.

“ _Perdón_ ,” Imelda says, not wanting to interrupt. “Hold this.” She hands the platter to Héctor and he takes it so she can tuck her skirt behind her and sit.

“ _Gracias,_ ” Héctor tells the bird woman. “But anyone would dance to this music, I think. No matter who plays it.” He chuckles. “Mostly.” Then: “ _Ay,_ Imelida, you look hot. Wanna put your shawl in the guitar case?”

“ _S_ _í_.” The moment she takes it off the cooler air hits her and she tilts her head to welcome it. “ _Ay, Madre mio_ that feels good.”

“Ah, here,” Héctor says, handing her the platter. She takes it from him and gives him the shawl, watching him tuck it over the guitar so not a part of it falls on the floor, then hands him the platter back.

“Er, _perdón,_ _”_ he tells the bird woman who is nervously waiting. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

 _“No…no te preocupes,_ ” the woman says.

Imelda takes her beer back, sipping at it, feeling much better. Just being near him is soothing. Most of the time. Who cares about De la Cruz and Ruiz and all the rest. She watches Héctor take a few bites of an _enchilada_ and hum excitedly before handing it to her. It’s a little difficult to handle with the sauce dripping off and she has to lean over the plate, but it’s warmer than she thought and good. Whoever made the chili sauce was clearly good at it.

“Mm, _bien_ ,” she says, sucking the sauce from her fingers.

“Isn’t it?” Héctor says. “Want to try one?” he asks the bird woman, holding the platter up to her. She takes a half step back.

“No _Gracias._ ”

“Nesto?”

“No,” De la Cruz says shortly. Héctor shrugs.

 “Suit yourselves.” He clears his throat. “I’m dying here. ‘Melda, can I—”

“Mm.” Imelda brings the platter to her lap so she can finish the _enchilada_ and hands him the beer.

 _“Gracias._ ” He takes a deep drink and looks at the bird woman once more. “So you’re from near _Calle Blanco_? That’s a pretty fancy part of town.”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” the woman says, gathering her skirts in her hands and looking between them and at De la Cruz. “My Mama worked for Don Alvaro…” She hesitates. “…Are you two…?”

Are they …what? Imelda looks at Héctor who returns her look, cheek bulging with food. He swallows it but doesn’t seem to have an answer to the question. Neither does she exactly. She wouldn’t say they are courting. It doesn’t feel like that… She just wants to be with him, that’s all. And he wants to be with her, it seems. So…

“With,” she says.

“ _S_ _í_ , with,” Héctor says. And suddenly it’s defined. Suddenly it exists. A new state of being, it feels like. With. Together. She likes that. She likes it a lot. But tells herself that De la Cruz will find some way to ruin it.

“Oh, well,” the bird woman says, sounding subdued. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed tonight.” She holds her skirts close about her. “ _Gracias._ ”

“A _m_ _úsico_ isn’t a _m_ _úsico_ without an audience,” he says, voice warm. “ _Muchas gracias._ ”

Imelda can’t help but smile. Her sweet Teto….

Her own faint happiness fades as his smile smooths into a frown when the woman walks away. Imelda reaches to run her fingers through the back of his hair, massaging his scalp, even if she’s not sure why he was suddenly upset. The woman had liked him, and she wonders how many do. Probably a good many.  Does he enjoy it when women like him? Is he sad that she left and now De la Cruz will go back to his old ways?  Imelda suddenly wishes she were someone else, for no other reason that Héctor can be given more of a chance to relax. He doesn’t deserve this.

“You call that flirting?” De la Cruz says and Imelda’s stomach sours at his presence so she’s not even hungry anymore, even though the delicious _enchilada_ is not entirely gone.

“What did you say to her?” Héctor says, sounding tired. “She’s got enough on her plate without you causing problems.”

“Nothing,” De la Cruz says, straightening. “She wanted to meet you so I…made sure it happened.”

Héctor rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t believe him and gulps down more beer. She waits for De la Cruz to go away, to find something else to do, but realizes with a sinking feeling he doesn’t intend to leave. Instead he’s watching them as if trying to figure out what else to say or do.

Imelda closes her eyes so he won’t see the hate in them, trying to focus on just Héctor beside her and the feel of his hair over her hand as she continues to massage his head, the back of his neck. She can feel him start to lean into her, then straighten. She can hear people coming closer and wonders if it’s Ruiz. A cold chill goes through her at the thought. It’s fine, she tells herself. Héctor knows that Ruiz is dangerous, and anyway she’s here. If Ruiz tries anything she won’t let him get away with it.

“Ah, Don Sanchez! _Se_ _ñor_ Brugué!” De la Cruz says happily. “Did you enjoy yourselves?”

“You sound even better sober,” says the slurry old man, sounding even drunker than before. “I told you these _rurales_ have _something_ going for them.”

“So long as you stick to backwater cantinas,” says a younger man with a sneer in his voice that Imelda hates.

“That’s where we do best!” says Héctor, prompting a laugh from a few people nearby. The old man’s laugh is loud enough to buzz in her ears, De la Cruz’s sounds pleased in a way that annoys her. She reaches out for the tankard of beer and finds it pressed in her hand easily and she drains the last of it.

“And this must be the famous Imelda,” says the drunk old man and she clutches her fingers against the tankard once more, glad it’s there. She opens her eyes only reluctantly and almost wishes she didn’t. There is the drunk old man and the snide young man, both expensive vest wearers and with a bird woman on their arms. Ruiz and his friend are there too.

“More like infamous,” says De la Cruz, prompting another laugh. “You should see her drunk.”

“Ernesto,” Héctor grumbles and she squeezes his shoulder lightly. It’s not worth it. He’s a _cabron_ and a liar and she doesn’t care what these people think of her.

“I’d like to see that,” says the drunk old man, leering at her as he brushes crumbs from his mustache. “I’d like to hear her sing too. My man heard her at the _Gallo_. ‘ _Malagueña_ _’,_ was it? Sing it for me.”

“No.” She would not taint that memory for this _viejo._ She would not sing and dance for the critical eye of De la Cruz or Ruiz, who was giving her a smug look as if he was winning some game.

“Not even to strengthen a poor man’s heart?” the old man says, frowning at her and putting a shaky hand to his chest.

“No.”

“You’re being very unfair,” the drunk old man says and the younger man scoffs.

“ _You_ _’re_ being unfair,” Héctor says, surprising her. “If you want Imelda to sing for you, at least offer to pay her.”

“ _H_ _éctor!_ ” De la Cruz hisses.

Pay her? She hadn’t even considered asking.

“What do you think?” Héctor says, looking at her. “I’d say two _pesos--_ ”

“ _Two_?” De la Cruz sputters. Two? Two _pesos_? She touches her throat as her heart flutters. That would be enough for an entire week of rent at the _posada_. Could she really get that much? Just for singing? It feels like it did when Héctor shared the _centavos_ from that night. She hadn’t done anything but enjoyed herself and for that she had been able to put a little by for the twins. And now with two _pesos_ … She could have a whole week of freedom. It’s like a whole new world is opening up, a new life, and all she has to do is agree.

“We get about four between us,” Héctor tells her. “Or would if someone would stop scamming us out of most of it,” he adds, and Ruiz’s smile disappears. “Annd considering you have a reputation now--” he grins. “I’d say you’d deserve at least that much. If you wanted.”

If she wanted… She does. _Ay,_ she does. She wants the money, she wants the _freedom_ , for just a week of relief. For doing what she wants and when she wants and not having to worry. But then… If she does take it…

“Your _m_ _úsico_ is presumptuous,” says the young man, interrupting her thoughts. “Why should we pay anyone anything?”

“ _Ay,_ sadly, _Se_ _ñor;_ quality entertainment doesn’t come free,” says Ruiz, smile returning. “But we’re willing to negotiate.”

“You don’t speak for me,” Imelda says, anger bristling through her at the assumption that he could. “I don’t work for you and I will never give you a single _centavo_.”

“ _Se_ _ñorita_ ,” Ruiz says spreading his hands, his smile thin. “I beg you to reconsider.”

“No.” She will never. Will _never._ Even if he _was_ an honest man. Because…because she understands something now. Or at least is starting to. “And, _perdón_ , _Se_ _ñor_.” She looks at the drunk old man. “I won’t sing for you.” It’s not his fault or his money’s fault. It’s just that singing is hers. It is something in her heart as fragile as an egg or the rare morning dew that shines in the coming light. If she sings _just_ for money, she will tear that feeling apart, like the last shred of her soul given up to the world. She will sing when she wants to sing and for who she wants to sing and that is decided.

The drunk old man looks taken aback by that and the younger man glowers.

“Come on, _Tío_ ,” the young man says. “Let’s get out of this pit and go somewhere with class.”

The drunk old man shrugs and begins to sing ‘ _Malagueña_ _’_ to himself, loudly and badly as the younger man helps escort him from the room with the help of the bird women. Imelda finds herself liking him just a little bit for that.

“Don’t be disheartened, _Se_ _ñores_!” De la Cruz calls laughingly after them and shredding even that small happiness as she knows something is coming next. “A woman like this has to be paid at least two hundred _pesos_ to even open her …mouth.”

“Ernesto!” Héctor snaps. Imelda looks at the _cabron_ who is smirking at her, as if he’d won.

“At least I can keep mine closed,” she says, the words slipping out of her before she even knows they are there. She doesn’t feel any better when De la Cruz pales and a scowl twitches at the corner of his mouth. She can see his fingers flex as if he wants to pull them into fists.

“ _Ay,_ Imelda…” Héctor groans and she immediately feels terrible for saying it. Then shakes that off. Why should she feel terrible? It’s true and it’s barely an insult! But it doesn’t help things either and she knows that. Only _nothing_ will help things! Everything is so impossible!

“ _Ay,_ Imelda indeed,” Ruiz says and her skin crawls at him saying her name. She wants to yank it out of his mouth. “Don Sanchez is an important man. The _mucho rico_ of San Menas.” He shrugs lightly. “He’s going to remember this insult and we’ll have to pay dearly for it. Rivera… De la Cruz…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing any money from the wedding.”

“ _What_?” De la Cruz snaps and gestures at her rudely. “Make _her_ pay for it! That is _our_ money.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” says Ruiz. “Not any more.”

“It is,” Héctor says, rising, and there is something in his voice. Something like iron under a soft linen. “It’s our money and has been our money and if we play, we’re going to get all of it that’s due, whether you like it or not.” She is proud of him for that. For finally, _finally_ having enough of this man. For finally seeking his own freedom.

“What are you saying, Rivera,” Ruiz says with a lazy smile that she doesn’t like.

“I’m saying I’m done,” Héctor says.

“No, he’s not,” De la Cruz says, reaching out to take Héctor under his arm. “No, we’re not.”

“Ernesto, _por favor_ …,” Héctor says, pushing his arm away. “Look at us. Look! What are we even getting from this? We’re exhausted. We’re living on nothing. He has a stable full of _m_ _úsicos_ he tells all the same lies. We can do so much better than this.”

“Héctor…,” De la Cruz says soothingly, and she can see the tension leave his eyes as he looks at her. She braces herself for whatever is to come. “I know you want to impress Imelda, but did you know that she’s a --”

“Will you leave her out of this!” Héctor snaps, fairly shouts and even Imelda starts a little at the sudden heat in his voice. “I’m tired of you constantly needling her whenever we’re together. I’m tired of you talking down to her and insulting her to her back and to her face. If anything, you should be grateful for her patience! I know you’re worried and I know you’re lonely and I know you think she’s like Carmen, but _Por Dios_ , would it kill you to treat her like a human being?!”

There is silence then. Around the whole cantina. It is fairly empty now, but she feels the stares of everyone on them even if he hadn’t been that loud. She rests a hand over her racing heart, relief and worry tightening through her like twin snakes, or thorny vines, wrapping around one another. She wants to reach out to him. She doesn’t want to make it worse.

De la Cruz takes a shuddering breath and draws himself up.

“I was just looking after my _hermanito_ ,” he says.

“Ernesto…”

“But if you don’t need me any more as it seems you’ve got _everything_ taken care of; then _Adi_ _ós!”_

“Wait,” Héctor says, but De la Cruz doesn’t. Instead he turns and marches out the door, people parting for him and watching him go. She’s too drained to hate him, though she wants to. He’d done it again somehow. Pushed Héctor down to make himself seem like he’d done nothing. Like he was the noble man and Héctor was the _idiota_ who just didn’t get it. She expects him to follow De la Cruz. To look her in the eyes with the _lo siento_ expression and she will cut him loose as she’d always done.

Instead he sinks into the chair, dipping his head back.

“Will you reconsider?” Ruiz says and it’s all Imelda can do not to kick him.

“I won’t,” Héctor says roughly and she wants to take that emotion from his voice, to smooth it away. To somehow make things work as they should.

“It’s your choice,” Ruiz says. Then turns to leave, his friend with him. As soon as the door closes behind them, Héctor slumps forward, rubbing his face with both hands. Imelda sighs, sitting beside him to rub his back. Her poor sweet Teto. He deserves better than this. He deserves so much better, but she has no way of giving it to him. Though she is starting to realize something she should have realized long before.

This isn’t going to work. They. Them Their ‘with’ness. How can it? It’s too much. The thought of losing him makes her feel dizzy and a little short of breath. But this is only making him miserable and no one in his life, it seems, wants her to be with him. Maybe they’re right.

“ _Lo siento,_ ” Héctor murmurs, voice muffled by his hands. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I should have _known_ it was going to be like this. It’s _always_ like this.” He gestures and then slumps again, hands dangling between his knees.

“It is,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss his shoulder blade without thinking. “But I knew it was going to happen.” She had only wanted an escape. She had only wanted to see him. She tries not to think of how much she’ll lose because of this. She tries not to think of tomorrow.

“That doesn’t make it right.” He sits up and catches her gaze. “You deserve better than this. You deserve more than some _flojo_ who messes up all the time.” He looks toward the door. “You deserve better than to be treated like that.”

“You’re right,” she says gently, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “So I’m fortunate to have you.” Her own words surprise her, but it’s true. She _has_ him. A part of him is hers. All her thoughts scatter when he returns his gaze to hers, his expression so strange, happiness and sadness all at once, frustration and also a kind of joy. How can he hold so much in him?

“Imelda…” he murmurs, like a caress. “Imelda. Imelda.” He turns his head and kisses her palm and the curve where her thumb met her hand, her fingertips. He needs to stop. He is clouding her mind. Making her want to forget what just happened, forget the consequences. Making her want to climb onto his lap and kiss him, trailing her hands through his hair, no matter where they are or who is watching. Making her want to continue this when they can’t.

They _can_ _’t_.

“Who wouldn’t want to be with you?” he murmurs.

“Plenty,” she replies, trying to remember how to breathe. He’s kissing her wrist now, making a soft raspy trail to the inside of her elbow.

“Then they’re blind. Deaf. _Estupido_. The biggest _tontos_ I’ve ever seen.”

“Héctor mmh.” Because he’s kissing her, and she can’t help but kiss back, slide her hands around his neck. One of his big _idiota_ hands slip to the small of her back while the other slides along her leg, tugging her closer, fingers tickling the inside of her knee. She wants to kick him. She wants to climb him. She wants to eat him alive. Someone clears their throat and they pull apart. They are still the center of attention, it looks like, though people seem to be looking everywhere else.

People.

She is tired of people.

They are everywhere and always in the way.

“Let’s take a walk,” she says, rising and plucking her shawl from the guitar case, wrapping it around her shoulders. Héctor shuts it and she watches the dangerous play of his fingers as he clicks the latches into place before he rises once more and takes her hand. She manages to gather herself a little as they go out into the chilly night. The moon is low. The stars are brilliant. The sky seems impossibly vast.

He’s watching the sky too, she notices and watches him watch it, the tilt of his head, the way his nose cuts a ridiculously wonderful profile. She wants to trail her lips along it. He looks down at her and she looks away before the inevitable can happen, tugging him into a walk again. They cannot be them, she reminds herself. So avoiding staring at him was important. Also going past archways or shadowed doors or the darkness under trees.

“It’s going to be different now, you’ll see.” he says quietly as they approach the fountain, watching the water drops like diamonds. She absently steps up to stand on the narrow edge of the basin, walking along it, using Héctor’s hand as support. “I can sing when I want, where I want. Even at the _Ultima_. I can come sing to you every day.”

Stars. So many beautiful stars. She doesn’t want to hope for it. Finds the feeling tickling in her throat anyway.

“Annd I’ll be able to not sing too.” He says in the silence. “We can spend the whole day just doing nothing. Or explore the city or… visit Santa Cecilia and go swimming in the river.”

It’s horrible. He’s horrible. To say those things. To make her want to do those things. To spend a day or days with him rather than hours or stolen moments. To not have to worry about the padre or De la Cruz or money or chores. She wants to tell him this, even carefully turns to do so-- but that’s a mistake because up here, on the fountain ledge, she is taller than him. He has to look up at her a little and that’s intoxicating.

“I can’t swim,” she says faintly, to keep her mouth occupied and full of words. She shouldn’t put her arms against his shoulders like that and definitely not lean in so that they are dangerously close.

“I’ll teach you,” he says in a soft lazy way, his hand drifting over her back. “I taught your _hermanitos,_ you know.”

“I thought so…” More than once they had come in dripping wet with Héctor suspiciously nearby. They hadn’t said anything about it, because she’d told them the river was dangerous, as if they’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. She hadn’t said anything because they seemed content and she’d trusted Héctor even then to look after them. The memory only makes her want to lean in closer. To kiss him to thank him. To bite his lips for bringing them to the river. Her sweet _m_ _úsico_. Her horrible _bandito._ What is she to do with him? With them.

With this feeling.

This feeling _so close_.

 She hums the melody softly, watching his lips part, a desperate expression stealing over him. She wants to fill that desperation, to answer it, to have him melt against her as if there’s nowhere else he wants to be.

“Will you sing for me, Imelida?” he murmurs, voice rough for some reason. A citrus feeling goes through her, a pleasant sour shock. “ _Por favor_ ,” he says. And oh, to hear him say that-- She wants him to say it again. What a sinful feeling. She bites her lip, trying to hide her smile, and watches him take a deep breath.

“How can I sing when I don’t know the words?” she says, trailing her fingers down the length of his nose, then pulling them away before he can kiss them.

“You start, and I’ll finish,” he murmurs, watching her. Oh! Has he finished the song finally? Has he found it? She wants to kiss him. She wants to dance. He had been so frustrated by those words and that he’d finally found them…She is glad she can hear them before the end… Before they end.

But …if she does that… then what kind of memory will he be left with? She can’t risk destroying it, of taking away something he was so passionate about.

“ _Ay_ , _de mi, Llorona,_ ” she sings softly, apologizing silently as he frowns. “ _Llorona de azul celeste. Ay de mi Llorona, Llorona de azul celeste..._ _”_ But perhaps…even singing this is…

“ _Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona_ ,” he sings instead, voice rough and sweet. “ _No dejar_ _é de que--_ ”

She puts her fingers against his lips, suddenly unwilling to hear it. Those words. That even if it costs him his life, he’ll keep… keep… feeling this.

No.

No, she can’t hear that. Not now. Not when there’s so much to lose. Not when she would do anything not to lose it. Not when she has to. He sighs against her fingers and kisses them but falls silent. He deserves so much better. She hopes that he can find it.

“Take me back to the _posada_ , Teto.” She leans in and gives him a soft kiss.

“Anything for you, Imelda,” he says, scooping her off the fountain and setting her on the ground. It feels so good to be in his arms like this, she feels so warm, so secure and she hates him. She hates him so much.

o.o.o.o.o.o

It is late. The streets of San Menas are quiet and mostly dark. A chill wind sweeps through the empty streets and narrow alleys. Imelda clutches the shawl around her shoulders with one hand, idly rubbing the thumb of the other against Héctor’s as he leads them down the narrow street. He’s worried. She can tell by how quiet he’s been, having barely said more than a sentence since they’d left the fountain. She wants to turn them around. She wants to press him in the shadows and kiss his worries away. She wants to go anywhere else but back to that _posada_ ; even if she has to walk all the way to Santa Cecilia.

But this has to end. They both know it. She has no choice but to keep going forward; sorrow growing like weights in her heart. She doesn’t want to think about that now. She doesn’t want their last time together to be filled with this longing; so she tries to turn her mind to other things…  

Like how well Héctor knows San Menas. How he moves them through it like ghosts, down broad streets and side streets and narrow alleys. As if he knows the way by heart. But he knows a lot of San Menas, doesn’t he? She remembers the patio he’d told her about, the ocohomobile _,_ the _mucho rico_ _’s_ garden. There’s so much still left to see, and she knows that she can ask him to show her at any time and he will.

But they can’t.

She won’t.

She presses her lips together, shivering once more. They emerge from an alley into scattered pieces of moonlight and low burning lamps. She knows where they are now. She’s starting to recognize landmarks, and even if she didn’t, it was hard to ignore the conditions as they entered the poorer part of town. There is a cracked wall here, missing shutters there; more men in ragged clothing, sleeping in doorways; their faces hidden under patched sombreros and frayed shapeless hats.

“ _Buenas Noches, muchachos,_ ” Héctor says and she wonders if he knows them or is just wishing them a good night. She finds herself kissing his hand without thinking about it and winces a little at his indrawn breath. What has happened to her that she wants him so much? This would be so much easier if she _could_ just see him as an _hermanito_.

“She dances in Santa Cecilia,” he sings quietly. “And makes the plaza her own. With her dark hair and her voice and her stare, no one can resist her song.”

Things like that make it impossible. He makes it impossible. She forces herself to remember again how terrible this evening had been. How much it would continue to be terrible whenever De la Cruz was around. How much Héctor would suffer. If he had even a pinch of sense he would stop tempting her like this.

Well she will simply have to take control of it. They are close enough the _posada_ now and now will be the time to do it. So she lets go of his hand and moves to stand in front of him, resting her hand on his chest.

“I can make it from here,” she says, absently straightening his collar, brushing her fingers over the ribbon tying it closed before taking it out and putting it in her hair. He is so handsome in the moonlight. Remembering him then and now, it even feels like he’s grown the short time they’ve been in San Menas. He’s certainly put on a bit more weight. Though if it will stay, who knows.

 Will he take care of himself when they are no longer them, she wonders. Or will he forget and let De la Cruz drag him into something else? Why can’t De la Cruz look after him better? It doesn't take much. Just to make sure he eats and drinks and doesn’t wear himself to nothing. How can she leave him knowing that?

How can she not leave him knowing what will happen if she doesn’t?

Why does he have to be miserable either way? She can’t even trust that he’ll _enjoy_ himself with De la Cruz now! But what is better? Not sure if he can? Or knowing that he can’t?

“Imelda?”

“Why can’t you just take care of yourself?” she snaps and he jumps a little, hands up.

“Ah-- _lo siento_? I think I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” She tugs at his collar again because it’s there, tugs at the shoulders, wants to do something but doesn’t know what. “You are never fine. You haven’t been fine since the day I saw you in the alley.” He had played her in then, too. Lured her in with music. He was always doing that.

“Actually that was the best day of my life,” he says with a grin. She can’t believe it.

“I was horrible to you!”

“Nah, you were just nervous. You get like that.” He takes one of her hands and kisses them, watching her. “Are you alright?”

She did not get like that! She isn’t like that at all! And if she is, it’s only because she doesn’t know what to do! She takes her hand away from him again and balls it in her skirts.

“Just take care of yourself, _bandito._ Can you promise me that?” Even though she can’t believe him. She can _never_ believe him. She will just have to trust him. She turns away from him while she still can, so she won’t see his expression, so she won’t be pulled back.

“ _S_ _í,_ but why? Imelda?” his call his plaintive and needles her heart. This is for the best. It is. Isn’t it? No, it has to be. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

No, she wants to say. _S_ _í_. How can she leave him when he’s finally free?

She _must._

 She doesn’t answer, keeps her eye on the kitchen door, lit by splinters of moonlight. The door swings open before she can touch the handle and she checks herself before she runs into…

De la Cruz?

His eyes widen and he sucks in a sharp breath as if she’s startled him. What is he doing here? Why is he using this entrance?

“What do you want?” Héctor says in the distance and De la Cruz looks puzzled.

“Héctor?” he murmurs as if to himself. Imelda half turns and her heart leaps in her throat as she sees Héctor standing in front of Ruiz’s friend, another man sneaking out of the shadows behind Héctor, gripping a wide length of wood like a club.

“Héctor!” De la Cruz cries.

Imelda is already running, voice rising in a shriek as he doubles over, Ruiz’s friend’s fist burying in his stomach. The wide plank of wood raises high. She won’t let it hit! She won’t! She _won_ _’t_! Imelda leaps and slams into the wood man’s back, hooking her legs around his waist and biting his neck as hard as she can, blood welling against her tongue and her heart surging as the man screams. How dare they! How _dare_ they! How dare they hurt him because he stood up for himself!

The man scrabbles at her, there is a sharp pain as he pulls her hair but she ignores it, biting down harder and digging her nails into his shoulders, wanting to tear him apart. She will not let go! She won’t let them hurt him!

“ _Demonios_! Get her off! Get her off!”

Blackness flashes over her vision as something cracks her head from behind. For a second she’s helpless but as soon as she can, she screams, kicking as hard as she can as someone pulls her away, clawing and biting anything she can find. A hand covers her mouth and she bites it hard. He curses and lets go and she jams her heel back between his legs and hears a sharp yelp.

“ _Puta!_ _”_ the man snarls. She can feel herself being thrown and her shoulder barks the stone wall hard as she lands. Somehow she staggers to her feet, trying to blink the daze from her eyes. A third man has appeared, burying his foot in Héctor’s ribs. Imelda charges him, diving for his legs to trip him.

He falls hard, one arm pinned beneath him and she scrambles to sit on his chest, to keep it that way. He grabs her throat, squeezing hard so tears come to her eyes; but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to breathe. She rips off her _chancla_ and smacks him hard as she can again and again and again; blood rising as she hears the crush of wood and the twang of breaking nylon. Someone has broken the guitar. Someone has broken his precious guitar!

_Cabron! Cabron! Cabron! Cabron!_

The man curses as his nose crunches and lets go of her throat, grabbing her wrist in a painful grip. She punches him in the throat with her other fist as hard as she can and he gags so she does it again and again-- even after he lets go.

“I-Imelda…” A touch on her leg and she nearly hits Héctor too. His face is swollen and there’s a knot above one eye. He seems barely there, hand trembling against her leg. As if he wants her to stop hitting. Why should she stop? Why should she when they’ve done this to him.

A movement catches her eye. She looks up to see De la Cruz by the wall next to the slumped body of the wood man, the broken guitar in twisted ruins on the ground. Ruiz’s friend is approaching him from behind like a stalking cat.

“De la Cruz!” she yells. He turns just in time, length of wood in his own hand. Even in the moonlight she can see the trickle of blood from a split lip and the red bruises around his knuckles. Ruiz’s friend holds up his hands, backing away, his finger dripping blood on the ground. She wants to bite it again.

“Come on,” the man says with a laugh. “I’m not going to hurt you. Rivera is just…no longer our _amigo_. But you are. Think of everything we can do together.” He holds out his hand. “What do you say?”

De la Cruz smiles and Imelda’s heart jerks into her throat. No. No, he _can_ _’t._ She grips Héctor’s fingers as De la Cruz reaches out to take Ruiz’s friend’s hand.

“You hurt my _hermanito,_ you filthy _paleto,_ _”_ De la Cruz says. “That I can never forgive.” And punches him hard in the gut, then smacks him in the back of the head with the wood so that he falls and again and a third time until he doesn’t move.

 There is silence. Imelda tries to catch her breath. She stares at De la Cruz across the way and he catches her gaze, breathing hard as well. He looks away, wiping the trail of blood away with the back of his wrist.

“ _Gracias_ ,” he says. “For the warning.”

She nods.

Then remembers.

“ _Ay,_ Héctor!”

His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. Facedown like this, he is probably sucking in dirt to his rattling lungs. Imelda scrambles off the _cabron_ and tries to push Héctor’s over to see where he’s hurt but can’t get a good grip on him.

“Careful,” De la Cruz says, coming over. Together they pull him onto his back. His face is a mess, blood is trickling from a split lip of his own. All of one side is a massive bruise and various scrapes elsewhere. His sleeve is torn and there’s blood from a cut there, but nothing on is belly or anywhere else. His breath seems harsher than it needs to be, but she doesn’t know what that means. The man beside her twitches and Imelda snatches her _chancla_ and smacks him right on the broken nose until he slumps again.

“I have to get him out of here,” De la Cruz says. “Before anyone else comes. Help me.” She tries her best and somehow they manage to get Héctor in his arms. One of Héctor’s arms slips free and dangles limply and Imelda carefully guides it back over his stomach.

“I’ll take him to the padre,” De la Cruz says. “He’ll know what to do.”

She nods and _ay,_ that makes her head spin and ache. But the padre… The padre. _S_ _í_. He will know. De la Cruz hesitates, then adds:

“You probably shouldn’t go back to the _posada_. They’ll expect you there. They don’t know where we live. Wait there until morning. Do you know where it is?”

She shakes her head.

“The fifth house on the third street. You’ll know it.” He shifts Héctor in his arms. “Good luck,” he says.

“ _Gracias_.” She feels she can barely speak now. He starts to go: “Wait!” She takes off her shawl and tucks it around Héctor so he won’t get cold. So that at least can keep him warm. Her Héctor. Her darling. Her poor sweet Teto. She strokes her finger over the curve of his ear. “Be safe.” She says to both of them then turns and jogs towards the shacks, head spinning and jumping at every noise. He will be alright, she thinks. He has to be alright. _Don_ _’t let him die,_ she silently begs to whomever may be listening. _Por favor._

o.o.o.o.o.o

Imelda wakes to the sound of bells ringing in the distance. Her head is pounding and her entire body aches. She can taste blood on her tongue. She blinks at the fuzzy unfamiliar surroundings. The bed is hard, the room is bare and cold. A rat runs somewhere in the shadows under the other bed and she shivers, burying her face in the worn softness of Héctor’s shirt. She can smell him in the collar.

Vague memories of last night flicker through her mind, though it’s hard to dwell on anything but the searing pain in her head. It… is morning. She can tell that much. It is morning and she has to… has to do her chores. Imelda sits up, tugging the shirt on and pulling it around her before staring at her feet. Her _chancla_ are by the bed but one is broken in half. She will have to go barefoot.

 Hunching her shoulders, she heads outside. It’s a gray day, raining lightly and cold, so strange. She staggers toward the _posada_ , avoiding the puddles where she can, her legs shaking under her with every step. As she gets closer she feels strangely tense. Every movement catches her eye and she wishes she had something for a weapon. That she had thought to bring her _chanclas_ at least, broken or no, as she doesn’t have the strength to turn back.

She stops to stare at the wall. Where the guitar had been, she remembers with a sickening flash. Where it had been broken, shattered, his precious guitar. His gift from the padre. It’s been taken somehow, the remains of it. Cleaned away from the street. Not even the case has been left behind.

How dare they. How _dare_ they!

But there is nothing she can do about it. She doesn’t even have the pieces to try and put back together. Another thing stolen away from her. And Héctor! Is he alright? Has he survived?! She wants to know. She wants to go to him. But with a sickening twist realizes she has no idea where he could be. She might not ever see him again. But what can she do? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_. She stomps her foot, the ground squelching and a part of her wants to sink into the mud. Another part wants to tear open every door in San Menas until she finds him.

But she will have to wait. Wait and hope. Imelda balls one hand into a fist and continues on, step by step. The _posada_ looms closer. She sees no one and no one tries to stop her; even the kitchen is empty though the lamps are lit, the fire is stoked, and she can hear the movement of chairs out in the common room. As if ghosts work here.

She shivers at the thought and then can’t seem to stop, even as she fumbles some scraps of dried meat into a bowl for Sofia, remembering suddenly how hungry the kitten must be, and continues past the kitchen. The back stairs make her stop yet again, wincing up into the gloom. There are so many of them and she is so tired. But Sofia is waiting.

 Putting her head down she goes up anyway, one stair at a time. The first floor. The second. At the third stairwell she can see a strip of grey light under the door. It seems lonely somehow. Cold. Emptier. She climbs maybe too fast because she’s out of breath and dizzy when she gets to the top. Groaning, she leans against the door for a moment and then pushes her way in.

 She wants to fall into the bed and never get up.

Sofia is sleeping on it.

No… she realizes as she shuffles closer and her eyes adjust to the dimness.

No!

“ _No!_ _”_ She falls against the wall, hand over her mouth.

There is Sofia, lying stiffly on the bed next to a large dead rat, head thrown back, foam curling from her mouth. Underneath them, the letters from her boys had been shredded into a thousand pieces from the fight.

It’s not fair!

 _It_ _’s not fair!_

 _Why did this happen?!_ She catches herself in the dusty mirror then, looking pale and beaten and terrified and screams, throwing the bowl into the mirror as hard as she can. The shatter of breaking glass is loud, but not enough. Nothing can be enough. The washbowl is upside-down on the floor where it had fallen yesterday, and she scrambles over to it, smashing her heel into it, slamming her foot down again and again until it breaks, splinters, scatters all over the floor and she doesn’t care.

There is thunder on the steps and the door slams open, making her jump.

“What in the hell-?!” Corrido starts, falls silent looking at her and says: “Put that down, _por favor_.”

She’s holding a shard of porcelain from the washbowl in her hand, not even realizing she picked it up, her whole body trembles and spots of blood slide through her fingers onto the floor. She doesn’t want to put it down. She wants to hold onto it. She wants to break it between her teeth. Corrido can’t stop her. She won’t be stopped by anyone. There are more footfalls and Vita appears, straining to look over his shoulders.

“What’s going…” and then her hand claps over her mouth. “ _Ay! Santa Maria!_ _”_

 _Santa Maria_ is not here, Imelda wants to say. Was never here. Has no power here to allow this.

“I can’t let you in there,” Corrido says.

“ _Por favor,_ it’s fine.” Then Vita is coming into the room, small and still, like a nervous wren. The _ni_ _ña_ smiles kindly. “Here, give that to me, you’re hurting yourself.”

And? Imelda wants to say. What does it matter? What does any of it matter?

“For me?” Vita says. “It makes me hurt just to look at it.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Imelda opens her hand. Vita takes the shard with a soft: “ _Gracias_.” And then tugs Imelda by the sleeve.

“Let’s go downstairs…”

“No,” Imelda says roughly. “I can’t leave her again.”

She can’t. She _can_ _’t_. She’s had to leave everyone else and now-- now she has to stay. Can’t leave Sofia to suffer alone.

“Then I will stay with you… And it’s more comfortable in that corner, don’t you think?” Vita says. Imelda doesn’t care but let’s Vita lead her where she will. She dimly hears Vita ask Corrido for blankets and water and food but she doesn’t want any of those. She wants…

She wants…

She just _wants_

And everyone has suffered for her wanting.

o.o.o.o.o.o

Imelda sits on the floor of the common room in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket and watching the flames. Though the common room is full, there is no one around her. Her hand is bandaged and her foot too. She has a clean dress and even her hair is clean and combed and bracketing her face. It is evening. Sofia is still dead. Héctor is-- who knows-- and she has lost her home. Corrido hasn’t told her, but she knows by the look he had given her that she’s no longer welcome here. She can’t even bury Sofia because of the rain, so the poor kitten is in the pantry, wrapped up tight in the old black dress and hidden in a basket.

As soon as she can, as soon as the sun comes out or the rain stops, Imelda will bury her. Bury her and go. Where she doesn’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe keep walking until she can’t. The twins might miss her for a while, but they will have their own lives and maybe they only barely remember her. Maybe to them, she is just a ghost; someone far away and gently fading. She almost wants to fade. To pull herself out of existence. She had ruined so much.

Everyone had warned her that she would, from Padre de Léon, to De la Cruz, to even _Se_ _ñora_ Lola herself in her way; but Imelda had done what she wanted, had wanted, had dared to do things her own way. And now the consequences have fallen on everyone else. If she had been where she was supposed to be, Sofia wouldn’t have died. If she hadn’t been at the _Tresoro_ Héctor wouldn’t’ve broken it off with Ruiz and been attacked. He would still have his guitar. That precious gift from the padre. He wouldn’t have fought with De la Cruz or been miserable or…

She should have gone into the country. Or remained at the _convento_ as they’d asked her and that way would have never met Héctor again to begin with. Or never have left the _convento_ to begin with. She could have become a _monja_ as _Tía Superiora_ had asked. Could have spent her days singing to God and tending the garden and the wounded. No one would have been hurt then.

But she can’t turn back down that road and undo it. She’ll just have to find a way to avoid it in the future.

Around her, life continues. The roar of conversation in the common room rises and falls. The door opens sending people tumbling out of or into the rain. The crippled _m_ _úsico_ settles in with a scrape of chair and happily plays ‘ _La Cigarra_ ’, and then that damned swallow song-- which quickly stops as he tentatively begins to play something else. Imelda can’t help but be annoyed at how relieved she is not to have to hear it.

A shadow falls over her. Probably someone wanting this spot or to ask what’s wrong. She doesn’t feel up to moving nor speaking so she closes her eyes and leans against the wall.

“ _Gracias a Dios_ , you’re here.”

She startles, her head spinning; and before she can even think to speak, Héctor is there, arms and shawl wrapping around her; and then he falls into her, nearly knocking them over as he sucks in a pained breath through his teeth.

“Héctor? _Madre mio!_ You’re alive!” She kisses him without meaning to, leaning back from his hiss when she remembers he’s wounded. “What are you doing here?” Imelda says, helping him sit which is difficult as he doesn’t seem to want to let go of her. “You’re hurt!”

And he is. He looks even worse. The bruise on the left side of his face has purpled, his eye swelled shut. His lip is swollen too and clearly he’s in pain.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You are _not_ fine!” she snaps. “You are never fine! _Madre mio_ , Héctor! What are you doing here? You could have died! Did you walk all this way?” If he did she was going to … To…! She doesn’t know, but he’ll regret having done it.

“No, no.” Héctor says, holding up a hand. “The padre brought me in his cart.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder where she can see Padre de Léon, De la Cruz, and some other men she doesn’t know settling down at a far table. Vita is standing among them and Imelda can’t help but feel the sting as De la Cruz gives her a friendly smile.

Well, who wouldn’t give Vita a friendly smile.

Vita is not a _puta tonta_.

The padre seems to glance at her and she ducks her head. How can she even look him in the face? How can she even look Héctor in the face?

“ _Ay,_ my poor Imelida,” Héctor says, pushing back the blanket and staring at the bruise on her neck. That big ugly hand. “Look at you.”

“I’m not your poor Imelida,” she snaps, tugging the blanket closed again, feeling another burst of shame. “I am not your poor anything. I shouldn’t be. Go be with Vita.”

“Vita?”

“ _S_ _í_. She won’t lead to _this._ ” She gestures at his face. He gives her a fond smile that she hates.

“She might lead to this if her husband finds out.”

She scowls at him. He’s lucky he is so injured or she would bite his nose. In fact she’s tempted to bite his nose anyway.

“You know what I meant.”

“ _S_ _í_ , but Imelda, this isn’t your fault. None of it is. Ruiz is the one who did it.”

“If I hadn’t gone to the _Tresoro_ \--”

“This would have happened eventually,” Héctor says gently. “I was never going to stay with Ruiz forever… And you tried to warn me. I was the _idiota_ who didn’t take it seriously enough. By the way…” His smile disappears and he reaches up to stroke her cheek. It isn’t in her to pull away. He watches her, firelight flickering in his eyes, the knot of worry between his thick, beautiful brows.

“Vita told me about Sofia. _Lo siento,_ Imelda.

She hates him. She _hates him_. Tears slip hot and uncontrolled down her face and he tries to gather her in his arms but she won’t let him.

“If I had been where I was supposed to be she wouldn’t have … she wouldn’t …” she can’t get it out. Can’t say it. Doesn’t want it to be true but it is.

“Cats eat rats,” he says, voice rough. “It could have happened at any time you weren’t there.”

“I didn’t even feed her! I left her alone for so long!”

“She was a happy fat fluffy _gatito_ ,” Héctor says, catching her tear on his thumb. “You gave her the best life you could.”

“It wasn’t enough!” she snaps, hitting the floor with her fist. “She deserved more!”

“I know…” He strokes the back of her head over the blanket. “Come here…”

This time she doesn’t resist. Can’t anymore. She cries instead, burying her face against his shoulder, reaching around to clutch at the back of his shirt. He strokes her back, chin resting on her hair and then, after a moment, she realizes he’s crying too, the _idiota_. How are they going to do this if they’re both crying together? She wants to comfort him but can only cling to him, crying until she feels raw and hollow.

Then she can only rest her cheek on his shoulder, rubbing his back as he sniffs, breath wheezing. Poor thing. Poor Teto. It isn’t fair. They had lost so much so quickly. It was all gone in an instant. She hugs him a little tighter.

“Your poor guitar,” she murmurs. “Oh, Teto. It’s gone. I wanted to at least get the pieces but…”

“I know,” he says, sounding raw himself. He sniffs. “It’s okay. Scrap like that is pretty valuable so it was probably stolen as soon as people could get their hands on it.” She winces at the word scrap.

“It was so special. I wish I could have saved it.”

“You saved me. I would have been a _mucho_ dead guy if you hadn’t bitten seven kinds of hell out of that first guy. Not to mention the other _cabron_ _’s_ nose. _That_ was satisfying.”

How dare he make her feel better. But she does, a little.

“He deserved it.” She mutters.

“ _S_ _í_.”

She shifts to look at him and he rests his forehead against hers. He was crying as she thought. His eyes are red and she runs her knuckles down his cheek before shifting her arms around his neck and curling her fingers in his hair. His hands come to settle on their back as they should and she watches his eyes, just to look at them.

“Anyway it really shook Ernesto up,” Héctor says. “He was worried about you and everything. You should have heard how he was trying not to curse at Ruiz on the way here.”

Really? She can’t quite believe it. But then she can’t quite believe anything when it comes to De la Cruz. He had chosen to defend Héctor though and so she could forgive him a little. “He might even let us spend time together without being an ass,” Héctor adds. Imelda snorts. She’ll believe that when she sees it.

Only…

“I… I don’t know when we can…” she murmurs. “I don’t think I can stay here any longer.” And she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t even want to see that room again. She’ll have to find somewhere else. Or maybe go out to the country.

“Good,” Héctor says. “Come to Pájaro with us.”

“Pájaro?” she blinks and he nods, grinning from the half of his face which doesn’t resemble a grape and immediately wincing.

“Ah, it turns out that Ruiz is… not really a great enemy to make in San Menas..” Héctor says and Imelda gives him a look for that since it’s obvious to anyone with eyes. “The padre’s _amigos_ think that even Santa Cecilia will be too close for a while, so the padre has arranged for us to go up to Pájaro. It’s only a few stops down the line from here, but the bishop has a summer home there and the church is kind of the _gran jefe_ of the area.”

“I can’t, Héctor.” It’s sweet of him to offer and she wants to, but… “Everything’s been so miserable.”

“Pájaro will change all that.”

“Héctor…”

“No listen. It will. Or well not Pájaro itself but… we’ll work things out. It’ll be hard and I can’t guarantee that Ernesto won’t ever be an ass but it’ll be easier when I can get another guitar and he can see how great it is not to try so hard. He’ll relax. And you can come sing with us whenever you like, or just watch or dance or…or do whatever! As long as we’re together, it’ll be fine!”

How can he think it will be fine? How can he have such big dreams? Such big hopes? How can he make her believe even when she knows she shouldn’t.

“Trust me,” he says. “We won’t even have to start right away because we’re supposed to heal up in the cleric house a few days. As guests.”

“Guests?”

“ _S_ _í!_ You don’t have to cook or clean for anyone. You can just lay in bed and look attractive all day.”

She thumps his shoulder lightly for the compliment, then wraps her arms around him and buries her face against his neck. It sounds like a dream. It sounds too good to be true. And yet…

And yet…

She sighs.

_Idiota_

_Bandito_

Her beautiful _m_ _úsico._

Her frustrating Teto.

“Sing me your song,” she murmurs. “I want to hear the rest of it…”

“Well….the first verse is done…”

“So what is it?” She looks up at him again, resting their foreheads together once more. “Tell me.”

He swallows.

“You’re going to look at me like that while I sing it?”

“I was looking at you last night,” she says; and it was an entirely different look too. She doesn’t understand what the problem is. “I can close my eyes,” she adds when he hesitates.

“Ahh _s_ _í,_ that would help.”

She closes her eyes.

He clears his throat, clears it again. She really is about to bite his nose when he starts singing low, and a little hoarse:

“A feeling so close, I could reach out and touch it,” he sings.

“Mm, I’ve heard this part,” she says, stroking the back of his neck with her thumb.

“I never knew I could want something so much, but it’s true,” he says, a laugh in his voice.

“I’ve heard this one too. Does it just repeat?”

“You’re not making this any easier,” he sings and she smiles and kisses the tip of his nose.

“A feeling so close you can reach out and touch it,” she sings softly to bring him back into it. “You never knew you could want something so much, but it’s true…”

“And though I can’t find the words now to say it.” He stops, swallows, then softly: “One day I’ll tell you exactly how much that…. That I love you…”

“ _Ay,_ Héctor!” Her face is on fire and she has to bury it against his neck again. What is she supposed to do with this feeling? So many things have gone wrong and Sofia is dead and she is sad and tired and yet her body is overflowing with a warmth that seems to fill her with light from the inside. What is that? How is she supposed to express it? This feeling. What is it?

“Do-- do you like it?” he asks.

“I hate it!” she says, meaning it and not meaning it. He laughs and then hisses in pain before murmuring:

“I’m glad.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

The sun is shining on a warm morning that still smells faintly of rain. Imelda holds Héctor’s hand, leaning against him on her good foot as they stand on the road from San Menas to Santa Cecilia, looking at the tiny grave by a thorny tree. _Se_ _ñora_ Marina and Vita are there, too, shoulder to shoulder. Padre de Léon is standing by the grave, face shadowed by his broad brimmed black hat, hands folded over his cane.

“Blessed are you, _Señor Dios_ , maker of all living creatures,” he intones somberly, his voice quiet but filling the air with its presence. “You called forth fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on the land. You inspired Saint Francis to call all of them his _hermanos_ and _hermanas._ We ask you to bless this _gatito,_ however it may be, by the power of your love, and help us to know that this is part of your plan.”

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth as her eyes sting and Héctor squeezes her other hand. She leans against him, gently.

“May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you _Señor nuestro Dios_ , in all your creatures. Amen.”

“Amen,” Héctor and _Se_ _ñora_ Marina and Vita murmur. Imelda doesn’t trust herself to speak. They stand in silence for a moment, save for a bird singing somewhere. In the distance, she can hear the faint creak of leather as the padre’s burro shifts in its harness. _Se_ _ñora_ Marina takes in a breath.

“We’d better get back before someone throws a storm,” she says, crossing over to Imelda and wrapping her in a wiry hug. Imelda is surprised but returns the embrace anyway, not sure what else to do. “I’ll miss you little _Se_ _ñorita_. _” Señora_ Marina says. “And I’ll never forget how you scared the hell-- _perdón,_ padre-- out of that _vieja_.”

“Imelda scares the hell out of everyone,” Héctor says. Then: “Ah… _perdón_.” There is a quiet ripple of laughter and Imelda can’t help but smile. She hates him. _Se_ _ñora_ Marina lets her go after a squeeze and then it’s Vita’s turn. Imelda returns her hug tightly. She hardly knew this _ni_ _ña_ and yet she liked her. Maybe if she could have remained longer at the _posada_ , they could have become friends.

“I will miss you too,” Vita says. “Take care of yourself, Imelda; and be happy.”

She’ll try, and she half believes she’ll succeed-- Either way, she’ll be as happy as she can manage.

“And you,” Imelda says, her own voice rough. “Don’t let that _vieja_ push you around. Even if you have to break a spoon or two.”

“I think I can handle her now. I’ve learned a thing or two from you,” Vita says, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and Imelda is touched, even if doesn’t know what Vita could have learned. With a smile, she touches Vita’s cheek. The _ni_ _ña_ puts her hand over Imelda’s and for a moment she just enjoys this feeling, this tenderness.

“You’re going to need to do a lot of handling if we miss the fresh eggs,” says _Se_ _ñora_ Marina gently but sounding worried. Imelda pats Vita’s cheek and lets go.

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride back into town?” Padre de Léon says.

“No _gracias_ , Padre,” says _Se_ _ñora_ Marina. “We have to stop by the market.” And she smiles at Imelda, nodding. “ _Adi_ _ós_.”

“ _Hasta luego,_ ” says Vita.

“ _Hasta luego,_ ” Imelda replies. Will she see San Menas again one day? She doesn’t know. But she likes the idea of it somehow, if only just to visit them. It’s strange…to know that there are people who will be waiting for her. If only she had taken the time to know them better. Imelda watches them head off to town, arm in arm.

“Héctor,” Padre de Léon says. “Do you want to help Ernesto with the cart?”

“Help Ernesto with the-- Oh. _S_ _í._ ” Héctor passes by her, giving her a little kiss on the temple. Just looking at his bruises makes her heart twinge. She clutches her shawl about her and watches him go to where De la Cruz is waiting, missing the guitar that should be in his hand or slung over his back. She feels she’s hardly seen him without a guitar. As if it had become part of him somehow. And now it’s gone. Is it horrible to feel such sadness for an instrument?

Horrible or not, the ache is there.

“Well, Imelda,” Padre de Léon says. She turns to watch him, trying to swallow down the feeling. He hasn’t moved from where he was standing, his hands still crossed over the cane as he watches her from under the brim of the hat. “I hope you realize that Ernesto was trying to protect Héctor. Which doesn’t excuse the… misunderstanding.” He makes a face she can’t quite read but it’s gone as soon as it comes.

“ _S_ _í._ ” It doesn’t bother her. It’s old and past and she expected it from that man anyway. She’ll never forgive the padre for thinking it of her, but she still feels a dim fondness for him-- and regardless, he is a padre.

He is watching her as if waiting for something more. She has nothing more to say. What else is there, after all?

“The letter I’ll be sending with Héctor will let Padre Francis know of your situation,” he says after a moment. “He can find work for you somewhere within the church.” He hesitates and then a faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Or hold your _hermanitos_ letters when you sneak off with the boys in the middle of the night.”

She breathes a laugh, surprised he’d even suggest it; and a warmth fills her. It’s like he is approving, in a way, that she will be with Héctor. That they are them. That they are with. And De la Cruz too, she supposes but even with that-- It … is almost like _familia_. Like him telling her she belongs.

“People will look down on you, you know that,” Padre de Léon says, serious once more. “An unmarried woman with two men? You can say they are your _hermanos,_ but it won’t take long for others to guess the truth.”

“Let them look where they want.” She doesn’t care what strangers have to say and she has no intention of hiding. Anyone can think anything of her so as long as she has Héctor, and her boys, and wonderful women like _Se_ _ñora_ Marina and Vita. And, well, De la Cruz is there as well, she supposes. She doesn’t want him but knows that he will have to be there because _hermanos_ should be together. Is he what an in-law is supposed to feel like? The thought makes her smile a little and she wonders what would happen if she broke a spoon at him.

“You are strong,” Padre de Léon says, interrupting her thoughts. “And brave. And almost too proud. Don’t let that be your undoing.” It is a lecture but a gentle one and Imelda lifts her chin at being called strong. She is strong. Strong enough to endure, strong enough to fight, strong enough to work. Perhaps she is too proud, and it is a sin, but for now she’ll hold onto that pride since she’s earned it and it makes her feel good to have it. It’s solid. Weighty. Holding her down to the earth. No longer is she a feather.

“ _Gracias_ ,” she says. He gives her a look.

“Imelda, listen to my warning.”

“ _S_ _í_ , Padre. I heard it.”

He sighs and shakes his head. Then comes to her and presses a kiss to the top of her head like a benediction.

“Go with God, _mija._ ”

She is not his _mija_. He will kiss her without even apologizing for what he’d said. He has pride of his own. A man’s pride, perhaps. A padre’s pride. She will accept the benediction. She will tell anyone that he is a good man and reliable, because it’s true. She will meet him again with warmth and gratitude for what he’s done for her, her boys, Héctor …and De la Cruz, she supposes. But she will not be his _mija_.

“The train will be coming soon,” Padre de Léon says. “Are you ready?” She nods, putting an arm around his shoulders as he slips his around her waist to steady her. They hobble back to where Héctor and De la Cruz are standing by the cart. De la Cruz seems relieved. She remembers vaguely that he doesn’t like funerals, and it’s good that he remained here instead of clouding up Sofia’s.

The thought makes her heart twinge yet again. Her precious _gatito_ should be here, playing in the back of the cart; purring curled on Héctor’s lap or her own. She would love to see the train, perhaps. There was no sense in how she died.

But gone is gone and at least the poor dear little thing can sleep as all cats do, without hunger or want or loneliness…. She quickly blinks back the tears before they can settle in her eyes.

“Are we going?” De la Cruz says. “Are we done?”

“ _S_ _í,_ ” Padre de Léon says. De la Cruz helps Héctor into the back of the cart and then, after a moment’s hesitation, offers her his hand, a strange earnest expression in his eyes. She will not take his hand.

“No _gracias,_ ” she says, turning her back to the cart and pushing herself up onto it. Pain throbs dully across her palm, but what does she care.

“Remember what I said about pride, _mija,_ _”_ the padre says, sounding exasperated.

“I remember.” It doesn’t mean she has to take De la Cruz’s hand if she doesn’t want to and she’d rejected it politely so if he was upset about it, it was not her problem. Instead she turns to Héctor who is looking paler as he rests against the side of the cart, braced against their luggage. She shifts closer to brace his other side, pulling his arm around her shoulder, feeling a little better.

 De la Cruz looks as if he’s going to join them and she braces herself for it, for watching him clamber up the other side and sit, facing them. He’s been…different today. As if he had been worried, as if he was still upset. As if he was trying to make up for what he had done. She’s not sure what to make of it or how to reply.

“Let me help you with the burro, padre,” De la Cruz says, and she relaxes, letting out a quiet breath as he moves around to the front of the wagon. De la Cruz is inseparable from this, she knows. He will always be there. Always just around the corner. Always breathing on the edges of the moment. She can endure him. She can endure anything.

“Gi’ up,” the padre says and Héctor winces, sucking in a breath as they tug to a start. She turns her head to press a soothing kiss to his palm, tucking her arm more securely around his waist as they start over the road, rutted from yesterday’s rain. She leans her head against his shoulder, watching the blue sky.

“You know,” Héctor says. “When I was a _ni_ _ño_ , I used to lay back in this cart all the time and just watch the world go by and I would think, what is my future going to be?”

“A troublemaker,” the padre says and Héctor makes a face at him but Imelda smiles. It’s true. He is. A troublemaker in every sense of the word. She turns to look up at him.

“And what did you want your future to be?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” He looks down at her. “But I’m beginning to get an idea.”

Horrible man. What does that mean. How dare he say something like that while looking at her through his warm eyes. The eye that is open anyway. She leans up and kisses him as gently as she can. He hums softly against her mouth.

“This is going to be a long trip,” De la Cruz says.

“Consider it penance,” says Padre de Léon. “And no sin in the cart.”

She breathes a laugh at that. If such a simple thing as a kiss is a sin, then they are truly damned. She leans back on Héctor’s shoulder, reaching up with her other hand to trail her fingers along his nose and avoiding his mouth when he tries to kiss them. She wonders if she should tell him of the sin she found. What he’d do if he knew.

Will she even have any time to tell him? He says she’ll be a guest in Pájaro. That she won’t have to do anything. She doesn’t know if she can believe that. And even if she is, with De la Cruz there as well, what if there is no time for them? She will endure that too. She decides. She will endure anything for just a moment. For just a scant few seconds of this feeling. This withness.

She enjoys it while she can, soaks up every moment of it she can so she can remember it when they are apart again. When they are frustrated again. She wants it to last forever, this ride, this stillness with him. But it seems no time at all before it’s coming to an end as they arrive at the station.

People are already crowding the platforms with luggage and bundles and goats on lengths of rope. Crates are stacked up here and there and there’s a kind of energy she wants to duck her head from. Anticipation wells in her throat, exciting and bitter and she tucks her shawl more securely around her throat so no one can look and see that horrible bruise there.

“Behave yourselves in Pájaro,” Padre de Léon says. “I’d like you all to consider finding stable work there. Being a _m_ _úsico_ is dangerous and there will be few people to help you.”

“Ah, life is dangerous,” Héctor says as if he isn’t the most beaten of all of them. “Anyway, I couldn’t hold down a job if I tried. Next thing you know I’d be stealing chickens.”

“Hmh,” says the padre. “So long as you leave the wimple at home.”

“I don’t know…” he wiggles his eyebrows at Imelda making her feel better in spite of herself. “I make a good _monja_ , don’t you think?”

“You’d make a horrible _monja_ ,” Imelda says, pinching the tip of his nose in revenge and kissing it.

“Anyway, being a _m_ _úsico…_ it’s not so bad! Sure we’ve been beaten and are kind of running for our lives, but hey, at least we’re alive!”

“Héctor, you were nearly killed!” she says, shoving his shoulder a little.  How could he say it’s not so bad? It’s terrible!

“It is going to be a very long trip,” De la Cruz says.

“ _Dei gratia tecum vadat,_ ” Padre de Léon says, then: “Ho’h.” And the cart comes to a stop.

They are here.

The burro brays and from down the track, the lonely train whistle answers, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Down from the cart they go, though it is a bit more difficult than it had been getting in. Imelda slips out first, hitting her foot wrong on the boards; and has to stay on the side, wincing as De la Cruz helps Héctor down who seems to be even paler with the moving, clutching at his ribs.

Not so bad!

 _Idiota_.

De la Cruz then pulls the luggage from the back. His own suitcase, Héctor’s which has been repaired finally and…her own. Charity from the church. It’s small and stained here and there and it feels foreign to have all her clothes in a small leather thing and not bundled against her back in the shawl.

…and then there is no more to pull out.

They look into the empty cart. There should be a guitar case there. There should be a kitten. She wonders what De la Cruz would look for. What is missing from him that he would like to hold tight.

Héctor sighs shakily. She slips her arm around his waist at the same time De la Cruz puts his around his shoulders and she has to lean to avoid being bumped by his elbow, though the other man doesn’t seem to notice. It’s fine, she tells herself. This will be fine.

The ground seems to rumble under her feet as the train nears.

“I will miss you _ni_ _ños_ ,” Padre de Léon says, turning in the cart to watch them. He’s taken off his hat and his gray eyes seem to be shining. “Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other and remember…” His gaze rests on her. “You’ll always have a home in Santa Cecilia.”

Imelda sucks in a breath. Will she? She wants it to be true but doesn’t know how she can believe it. It feels an even more distant star than Héctor’s promises; so faint she can only see it out of the corner of her eye.

 Héctor gives her a squeeze around her waist, and she takes her bag and lets De la Cruz take the others as she supports Héctor to the platform, having to move mincingly on the ball of her foot.

The train is coming in. It still looks like some kind of demon, big and black with billowing smoke. _Demonios,_ but the kind that devours, that pulls them to an uncertain future. It chugs in closer, chuttering against the tracks and a part of her wants to run from this, the uncertainty climbing up in her throat.

“ _Mira,_ Imelida,” Héctor says breathlessly, pointing. She follows his gesture upward to see a large flock of birds, wheeling and turning effortlessly in the air above the station. There are so many of them but neither loses a place in their dance, playing with the air and wind. “They are going to Pájaro too, eh? For the winter,” he says.

 _Wandering swallow of sweet sad grace,_ she thinks.

“It’s going to be a long fly and they probably will have no idea what to do once they get there,” he says, resting his cheek against her hair. “And maybe they’ll fight sometimes and go hungry sometimes but, you know, at least at the end of the day, they’ll always have each other.”

Each other.

She leans against him a little, closing her eyes, listening as the train screeches to a stop that stirs the loose hair around her face with a passing wind. That’s right.

She is no empty nest, easily left behind.

She is a swallow flying with him, wheeling in the same air, learning to dance, learning to sing, learning to get along with another swallow who she has no interest in. And maybe terrible things will happen, and maybe wonderful things will happen…

Anything can happen, she decides. So long as they are together.

She can hear the rush of people getting off the train and Héctor holds her close, his thumb rubbing against her shoulder. Finally, he says:

“Ready to go?”

She nods. Takes a deep breath. Opens her eyes to a new day, and says:

“ _S_ _í_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~And a Happy New Year~


	12. Natural Disasters and Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor has two goals in mind. One, get some tequila to toast Chicharrón for the upcoming New Year _fiesta_. Two, figure out what to do for Imelda's birthday so he doesn't inadvertently cause another disaster.
> 
> But as things continue to shake loose around him, he wonders if he really deserves to be part of the _familia_ after all, especially as some things he can't seem to let go of-- even though he knows he should.

It was two days before the New Year and  _El Loft del Artista_  was in a state of controlled chaos. From his perch on the box in Ceci’s room he could easily peer out the doorway into the mess and noise of a dozen or so artists and performers. They were all getting ready for the biggest thing this side of the Sunrise Spectacular, otherwise known as  _Buenos Dias, Nuevo Año!!_  A television show that Héctor had never seen and never intended to see, but was fun to watch all that went into it.

 It had become a habit since, he didn’t know when. Twenty or thirty years ago at least. To stop in a place like this, an artist commune, a theater, a production group, and secretly indulge again in this kind of life. He knew he shouldn’t. That he should do his best to avoid this kind of stuff. But he needed something to shake off the last vestiges of another failed  _Dia de Muertos_ and the pool of depression that was shanty town during  _Las Posadas_  …and to remember the good parts of the Land of the Dead. Which was to say the people, the art, the energy… and occasionally the music--

Though as the music was almost always the traditional songs this time of year and unending variations of ‘Remember Me’, it had felt more like a penance than a reward… Still, eventually even that had faded into the background if he no longer paid attention to it.

Mostly.

Usually.

Sometimes…

It was also a good time of year to come get or renew contacts, to generate good will for any favors he’d need later on. The  _Artista_  seemed full to the brim for this  _bobo_  television special and everyone needed something done. They needed someone to run to get that thing or deliver this other thing. To pose or hold or sit or admire their hard work and native skill. Even to send patronizing messages to the artist across the room. Those were always fun so long as no one decided to shoot the messenger.

Even now, when his life had been shaken up like a box of dice, he found a certain peace here. A relief from the thoughts and distractions that had been buzzing around his head for the past few days. A welcome bit of normal. He enjoyed hearing the chatting, the sounds of desperation or relief, the stops and starts of artistic inspiration. Props rolled back and forth beyond the open door, even one that looked alarmingly like a Ernesto with a watermelon for a head. There was even some wincing satisfaction at the racket Gustavo and his little group were making, hidden from sight behind a backdrop of a cactus patch.

The music came to a jarring discordant end and Héctor grimaced.

“Learn to play!” someone called from elsewhere in the loft.

“You learn to play!” Gustavo called back.

“ _Ay_ , he seems in a bad mood,” Héctor said. Gustavo could be a jerk but he usually wasn’t an angry one.

“Who isn’t?” Ceci muttered. “One week to change the entire headliner act and they want it to be perfect. They could have made this decision  _months_  ago.” She clicked her teeth. “Raise your arms.”

He obeyed, watching the light flash and wince off the top of the gown seemingly made entirely of sequins as Ceci tied different fabric swatches just under his rib cage. He was glad she was giving him an excuse to stay in this mess, to bury himself in it. Even if he had to stay still or risk her wrath and straight pins vibrating uncomfortably against his bones. It was worth it to not be left to his own thoughts since they were making him a little loco these days.

He also had to do something to repay her for the Frida dress she let him borrow, the Frida dress she didn’t know he borrowed-- and working alongside Imelda and Rosita to cobble together four tall Frida dresses and two very short Frida dresses in the frantic ten minutes or so they’d had before they had to get into the papaya.

… That was a memory he’d never thought he’d have.

…Tucked side by side in the midst of the  _familia_ , sandwiched between Felipe on one side and Julio on the other and also the ten or so dancers who were destined to climb a cactus, wondering what in  _diablos_  was going on, but maybe because it was Frida Kahlo, hadn’t bothered to ask.

He remembered waiting --casting glances at Imelda even in the darkness and trying to guess her mood in the dimness. She had been impossible to read, but he’d been comforted by the thought of Miguel beside her and ay his heart had opened when he’d seen him, his  _chamaco_ , his  _hijo_ , standing there as tense as a wound spring as Imelda was-- and he swore that everyone who was in sight had shifted to look at the trickle of sweat coming down Miguel’s temple because what a rare sight  _that_  was.

Memories had come swimming to the surface of long sunlit days and lamp lit nights, of dancing and singing and walking and watching light shimmer off the crystal-clear lake. Of hot trains and running and fevers. Sweat under his collar and other things.

 Imelda had looked at him then, as if somehow she knew, and he’d nearly lost the will to live again just being caught in those eyes. He’d nearly fake swooned to get her to smile, but had remembered himself and that firstly, she hated him, and secondly, he deserved it and most importantly, they were all dressed as dancers and waiting in a damned papaya to get his picture from Ernesto his best friend and trusted brother who, as it also turned out, had murdered him.

Whatever rails his life had ever had, it had seriously gone off them at some point.

“You’re quiet,” Ceci said. “Whatever you’re thinking of asking, the answer is no.”

“Oh.. Ah… I wasn’t thinking of asking anything,” he said.

“Don’t move your arms,” she replied and he snapped them back into position.

“Iii was just thinking.”

“At least someone is,” she grumbled seeming satisfied at this. She’d mentioned something wrong hadn’t she? He thought back a moment and caught it. New headliner.

“What’s wrong with the old headliner?” Héctor asked. “Are they sick?”

Ceci paused mid-pin and gave him a look as if he should know. He had a sickening feeling that maybe he did. He didn’t want to know it. He didn’t want that to be part of this kind of chaotic world right now. Ceci only sighed and shook her head.

“Something like that.” She said. “Now keep your chin up and let me work.”

He lifted his chin, folding that thought carefully away and setting it aside. Instead his eyes settled on Dante, who was lying on his back, sleeping, back leg kicking every now and again. He was glad to have him still. Relieved to have him still. Blessed as Imelda would say.

_Ay_ , Imelda…

Héctor sighed as his gaze traveled from the sleeping dog to the calendar right above him, staring at it without really seeing it. In a few days, on the first when everything was fresh and new, it would be her birthday. How old was she now? He couldn’t even be sure. She had become a stranger to him yet again. Or….was becoming stranger. Or maybe he never really knew her to begin with-- but he definitely wasn’t sure about her now. Maybe she didn’t even know herself.

He couldn’t help but remember that night, just a few days ago, when Pepita had swooped right out of the sky, scaring seven centuries of life out of him that he didn’t even have. No explanation, no warning, just being hauled across the city and bowled into her window at high speed-- where she had been strangling in a nightmare.

That night when she’d laughed…at his expense, true, but in his memory it sounded like a precious gem, like the clear tone of a bell over water. That night when she had combed his hair in soft tender strokes, so that he almost felt the roots of them again. So many memories of mornings and afternoons when she would do the same, just for the pleasure of it, he guessed, because he’d never asked her to.

That night when she’d hummed in her small, secret way. As if not even realizing others could hear. He thought now that if it had been any other song, he’d have been enchanted, he would have fallen even more hopelessly than he had before, that he’d been given a precious gift.

But hearing ‘Remember Me’ had shocked him right to the core and left him feeling more brittle and shaky than when he’d actively been being forgotten. Like she was reclaiming Coco’s song for him, a wild part of his mind had thought, had latched desperately onto the idea like a drowning man to a piece of wood. That in that magical moment they were somehow, miraculously, a  _familia_  again.

That  _fantasia_  hadn’t lasted long, thankfully. Just looking at himself in the mirror had sent reality skipping right back into his brain. There he was, just a  _flojo_   _esqueleto_ , who hadn’t even been able to have a conversation with her in almost a hundred years let alone everything being fixed in one special moment. That part of his life was done. That part of his life was dead.

Not that he was out of the  _familia_ , he told himself, because Imelda had made it clear what she wanted-- that she’d wanted him to be there… but definitely not as a Papá. More… like the strange  _tío_  who visited and made things awkward until he left. Not that he’d had any  _tios_  to speak of or met one like that but had heard enough stories to know it was true. Anyway, he preferred weird  _tío_ , because otherwise he couldn’t understand what Imelda wanted…. and was beginning to remember that so many times Imelda didn’t even seem to know what she wanted.

Because she couldn’t want that, no matter what she had hummed. Why would she when she could have anyone? There was too much past and passed, too much water under the marigold bridge. They were two different people than they were when they started. It was too much to reach for. He didn’t deserve the shining star he’d thrown away so casually because of something else. Someone else. So, no matter how much she pounced him or called him  _bandito_ , or Teto or combed his hair. He wasn’t going to hold onto that hope.

Oh, he would love her,  _sí_... Always. Forever. That was one thing he would never forget, never get past. But he wasn’t that man any more. Didn’t know how to be him. Didn’t deserve to be him. Didn’t even want to be him. That guy was long dead and buried--

“Héctor!”

He blinked down at Ceci who was scowling at him and suddenly he was back in the  _Artista_  once more, hearing and feeling the thrum of life and regrettably terrible music.

“Ah,  _lo siento_?” he said as he rifled through his memory of the last ten minutes to figure out what he was actually  _lo sientoing_  for. She sighed.

“I said you could lower your arms.”

“Oh, ok.” He lowered his arms, then had to pick up the sparkly strap to put it back on his shoulder. She stood back and gave the dress a critical look. He decided to look too, mostly to keep his mind from wandering again. It was a nice dress and he liked it for the most part. Not that he would wear it. It was too fussy for a joke, too rich for a disguise and too awkward for an escape plan. Still it was kind of fun to move around in, and he lifted up the skirt a bit, tilting his hips to the side, and batted his eyes at her.

“ _Buenas Noches, Señora_ ,” he said in a falsetto, just to make her smile. It would have made Imelda smile and then he would have had to spend the evening keeping her hands from his skirts. She was like that. Or used to be like that. He wondered what she would do if he showed up like this outside of the hacienda.

Probably give the  _familia_  a lot of questions…

Well he wouldn’t give them any questions to ask, he thought fiercely. He would be the best strange  _tío_  ever.

“I don’t like it,” Ceci said. He blinked, startled, and was about to ask why when she came over and began to unpin the fabric swatch and he realized she was talking about the dress. “It will just have to be how it is. Take it off.”

“Ah…sure.” He carefully slid the straps from his shoulders and stepped out of it with Ceci’s help. She held the loosely folded shining fabric and stared at him a good moment. He cringed a little, wondering what he’d done. Okay, well going through a list of wondering what she’d realized. He generally didn’t like to take advantage of friendships but he’d been kind of desperate this past year.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, finally, shaking her head, turning away. He watched her cut across the room and carefully lay the dress across a table. Even though he didn’t know her as well as he knew others, she was clearly upset. Even Dante had stirred awake and was watching her with a quiet alertness, both ears perked. Héctor pulled his suspenders back up to his shoulders and slipped his arms through his  _chaqueta_ , watching her. Should he say something? Should he wait for her to say something? Should he plan an escape route, or an apology?

She didn’t seem to want to say anything and he was about to make a blanket apology and leave when a hummingbird  _alebrije_  that he hadn’t seen before swooped in from the open window and came to land on her shoulder. She tensed and then relaxed, raising a hand to pet it.

“Oh, is she yours?” he didn’t know she had an  _alebrije_. Or he’d never seen her with one.

Ceci sighed.

“I suppose it is.” He thought he heard something softer in her voice, but he couldn’t see her face so it was hard to tell. He wondered if the  _alebrije_  was new then. That she was still getting used to it. He didn’t know how or why  _alebrije_ s came to people but he wondered if she’d been hurt by something recently or maybe was feeling a little lost. Either way it wasn’t any of his business and if she wanted to be alone right now--

“The first movie I ever watched was:  _’La Canción del Diablo’_ ,” she said. “I was only thirteen and my mother thought it was too sensational for me, but I snuck out and went anyway with my  _primas_.”

“Uh huh…” He wanted to hear this story, felt like he should hear it somehow; and at the same time fought an itching desire to duck out the door and pretend he’d never been there. He’d never seen the movie but knew it was one of Ernesto’s and the less he had to hear of Ernesto the better.

The door was close. Her back was to him. She’d never see him go…

But she’d remember it next time they met, and whatever reason she was telling him this seemed important so he remained where he was, absently petting Dante’s head as the dog came up to him. Ceci sighed again, a different sound and he somehow knew the warmth would be in her voice even before she spoke.

“We sang ' _El Secreto del Amor_  ' all the way home.”

Now he was doubly glad that her back was to him because he still couldn’t believe Ernesto had retitled that dumb song. Love wasn’t a secret. The feeling so close that he could touch it wasn’t something he was holding to himself but trying to understand! To experience the feeling blooming inside like a small red flower with deep roots. And he just made just another dumb love song as if there weren’t thousands of them already.

Dante whined softly and Héctor shook his head to shake the thoughts out, mostly because Ceci was still having a moment and he felt he should be there and listen. Anyway it had been decades since he even tried to talk to Ernesto and even longer since he’d seen him on anything other than a billboard. It was too late to be annoyed at songs now. Too pointless. That guy was dead. Buried, somewhere. And if the ideas for his songs died with him? Well that was just bad luck.

Sort of bad luck.

Anyway, he told himself before he could go down that road. Whatever the song had been called, it had meant something to her. And that was the beauty of music. It could change and flow and sit in every heart differently. He tried to be proud that he had written something like that but all he felt was the air in his ribcage.

“I fell in love with theater,” Ceci said. “The presentation. The costuming. All because of his movies. His shows. He always had the best.”

Of course he had. He had somehow finally made it despite everything against him. And he’d always wanted to be famous like this, to charm people in an instant, to never have to be hungry or desperate or broke. In a lot of ways, Héctor was proud at him for having come this far, for having reached something he’d only dreamed of.

“I always hoped one day I would meet him,” Ceci said.

“And did you?” Héctor asked without thinking, caught up a bit in it.

“Can anyone who isn’t as good as he is?” she said and it was like a dose of vinegar to the brain. “I’ve seen him. Been in the same room with him. He’s as narcissistic and self-absorbed as any  _estrella_.”

Ah, well,  _sí_ , Ernesto could be like that, Héctor thought with a wince.

A lot.

Though he used to think that wasn’t all he was. That he still had a tender side from where they came from, for the people that had been just like him, like them-- No accounts from Santa Cecilia. How had he forgotten that?

“I learned long ago that a  _músico_  is not his songs and an actor is not his roles…” Ceci shook her head. “But I never believed he would murder a  _niño_.”

Now he had a feeling in his ribs, dragging down to his non-existent gut. That weight. That pull. That almost drowning and the memory of a bitter taste. Who was that man? How could he have let himself sink so far? At least Héctor had been an adult when he’d died, at least that made some sort of sense. But to not even let Miguel go home. To take away his future and from his living  _familia_  who would never know what happened until they’d crossed over. The thought made him ill.

“And now it’s as if it’s all gone.” Her voice seemed rough.

It was beautiful and heartbreaking at once. That Ernesto had touched so many people. That he had created something so big and inspiring with his talent and voice. That he’d cared more for his reputation and clung to it like a drowning man, willing to push others under.

He was beginning to understand something, too. Something else. Like a bubble of thought in the back of his mind. That music-- that shows-- that all of this was more than just words. More than just entertainment. It was like… like a different life. A life within a life. Maybe the only life they could preserve now that they were dead. Who were people more than what they did and what they dreamed and what they loved?

And Ceci, braced against the table, shoulders caged as her  _alebrije_  preened her hair, was mourning that life and everything that it had meant to her. The part of her that had loved that music. The part of her that had built her life around it.

He wished he could give it back to her somehow. To make everything normal. To make it okay. He almost wished Ernesto had written those songs. Or at least not tried to murder Miguel. That was the most unforgivable part of it all. The part that would ruin what Ernesto had built up in them, had inspired in them. He wanted to say something to lift her spirits. To make it alright again.

 What was that thing that Chielo was always saying whenever something annoyed her?

“Eh… well… you know…songs are like bad boyfriends. You’ll always find someone better.”

She said nothing and he felt a twinge of guilt for making light of it. He knew how important this was, to nurture that small fragile flame, strong but could be easily blown out. He tried desperately to think of something else. Something better to say. She straightened, pulling herself up in a way so  _familia_ r, so much like Imelda that it pained him. The moment was lost. Whatever she was going through she’d put herself above it for now.

“What is the most hard to believe,” Ceci said, shaking her head. “Is that you wrote them.” She turned to him then, raising her brow bone. He wasn’t sure whether she believed he wrote them or not. If she was teasing him or actually asking a question.

 “Eheh…” he shrugged a little sheepishly, not sure how to react. Funnily enough when he’d first died, he would’ve and had told anyone who would listen that he wrote the songs. Of course he’d given up after a while and then after Imelda came --well-- he didn’t even want to talk about them let alone admit to it.

But now…

Maybe especially now…

He didn’t even feel like the same guy.

He hadn’t even picked up a guitar since  _Dia de Muertos_. Hadn’t even looked at one. He had no songs in him except the ghosts of old ones that were better off sung by others.

Ceci was watching him still, as if searching for something It made him want to go out the tantalizingly open window and into the night. He swept his hat off the table and rotated it between his fingers, trying to find a way to say that and end this weirdly awkward moment. Ceci opened her mouth as if she wanted say something but was interrupted by a woman who poked her head in the doorway.

“ _Señora_! The stage manager is here again. He wants to see you,” she said.

“ _Ay, Santa Maria_ , again?” Ceci grumbled, suddenly all business again. She shook her head at Héctor and then pulled the measuring tape from around her neck to throw it on the table. “Show yourself out,” she said briskly. “And don’t sneak off with anything.”

“I won’t!” he called, but she was gone, closing the door after her with a shudder that made him wince. “Lo siento,” he murmured, and meant it for a lot of things. For taking the dress. For causing her so much work and anxiety and worry. For not being able to say the right thing at the right time. He rubbed his arm and wondered if there was anything he could do to make up for it. Maybe straighten the room or sweep the floor… But knowing him, he’d sweep up some valuable project and destroy a week of work.

Well he’d figure out something. No reason to dwell on it. He shook it off instead and whistled for Dante.

“Come on,  _perrito_ ,” he said. “We have a lot to do before New Years.”

He felt a little better as he slipped out of the window, taking a deep breath. The sun which had only barely come up was mostly set, lining the purple and blue mists with a thin line of pink that would soon disappear. It was the start of another long night which would only get longer as they moved further away from  _Dia de Muertos_. He took a moment to stand there, enjoying the view, and trying not to think of much else before going down the fire escape as noisily as he could.

Now that he’d gotten his head on straight, figuratively, and had sort of kind of cleared his mind-- and repaid a favor to Ceci as well as give her a little bit of an emotional crises, he thought with a wince, it was time to get things ready for  _the Fiesta de Olvidado_. The most cheerful and depressing time of the year for the people of Shanty Town. A sort of  _Día de Muertos_  for the already  _muertos_. They drank and ate and sang and danced and remembered all that had gone on to the Final Death. Héctor hadn’t done the singing and dancing part in a very long time and wasn’t sure that he would this year. But the part where they remembered, that was the most important-- so at least someone would never forget. For all the good it did.

“That’s why we have to  _fiesta_  while we can,” he said to Dante as cheerfully as he could manage, clattering along the cobbles. All the  _olvidado_  contributed to the  _fiesta_ , calling in favors if they could and begging if they couldn’t, leaning on the sympathy of the  _requierdados_ \-- who could be pretty stingy this late in the year as they were well and  _fiesta_ d out from their own celebrations so it was better to start early for either. And Héctor was starting late. Very late.

Buut he’d been busy looking at the shambles and loose threads of his abruptly changed afterlife and hadn’t really had the wherewithal to deal with it. He hadn’t even remembered until someone had asked him if he was bringing something special for Chicharrón and Héctor realized with a sudden stab of guilt that he should

 Héctor definitely owed at least a few bottles of tequila to drink in his honor. Not that he would drink it, he thought, a queasy feeling going through him. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to smell it and for the first time he was glad how much that sense was dulled here.

Though he missed it, strangely. And sometimes he felt a craving for it, the memory of it… That rush of heat, the feeling of warmth shooting through his veins, prickling along the memory of skin.

Only these days even the thought of it ended in crippling gut pain.

But so what, he thought, pulling his hat over his head and trying not to look at the glimpses of Ernesto’s bobo tower he could see through the gaps in buildings. So he died. So did everyone. No need to keep making a big deal of it. That was a long long long time ago and for a long time he’d more or less forgotten he’d even been alive save for a certain time of year.

“Just forget about it,” he told himself. After all he had other things to do…

The buildings gave away to an open space and there it was. He couldn’t help but stare at it. He couldn’t help but he drawn to it in some sick way, like picking at a scab or probing at a bruise. That huge ugly tower, sticking out of the ground like some dead palm tree or a bone white finger in the night. Only it was gray now. There were no fancy spotlights swaying or even flickering lights wrapped around it for the holidays. Even the house at the top looked abandoned, though it was hard to tell from this far away.

Héctor wondered what had happened to him. If he was alone right now. Jorge had said he was pretty messed up but what did that mean? Well if he were hurt, he wouldn’t be for long. And even hurt wasn’t really something that happened here. He would be fine, Héctor thought. Pretty soon he’d be back in his tower like nothing had happened.

The thought annoyed him, especially since he felt relieved as well. But why should he feel relieved? Ernesto deserved a little-- a little bit of-- He’d hurt Miguel, Héctor reminded himself for the millionth time. He could forgive being murdered. He could forgive even Ernesto stealing his songs. After all, Héctor was the one who had left him after getting his hopes up…. Had abandoned him…

“Ah, that’s not the point,  _idiota_ , he still threw Miguel off a roof!”

Only, Miguel had been saved and was safe and living his life. Even Héctor had a life now of a sort or at least he wasn’t desperately clinging to the one scrap of hope left. Ernesto had done a lot of terrible things but… did that mean he had to suffer for it? What if he was all alone up there? What if he felt he had no one to turn to? What if he regretted it? He must have right? After all he wasn’t a bad guy…

“He is! He’s the  _worst_!” Héctor told himself, told Dante, gesturing with both hands toward the tower. “We don’t care what happens to him, right?” Dante just stared at him, head tilted to the side, tail thumping uncertainty as if even he wasn’t sure about that.

Héctor sighed.

“We shouldn’t care what happens to him. Imelda would kill me if she ever found out.” Or be disappointed, which was worse. Or shutter herself again. Push him from the  _familia_. Keep him from Coco. He’d almost deserve it for these feelings. He only wished he could cut them away from him. To cut Ernesto away from his heart and cast him out. But even that thought pained him. The mental image of Ernesto alone. Tossed among the  _olvidado_ , though probably the  _olvidado_  wouldn’t even have anything to do with him given what he’d done. Ernesto deserved some punishment, didn’t he?

_Sí,_ he did.

And yet…

“And yet nothing.” He said. “We have things to do and it’s not this.”

First the drinks for the  _fiesta_ , then tracking down a member of the  _familia_  to figure out what he should do, if anything, for Imelda’s birthday. Probably Felipe because he was one of the few that Héctor knew how to find. And as for Ernesto, he could wait and keep waiting.

“We are done with him,” He told Dante, curling his hands into fists and stalking his way to the  _tranvía_  stop, listening to the sound of bones on stone. Even so… even as he thought it, even as he was determined, the tower remained in the corner of his vision for a very long time.

 

o.o.o.o.o.o

Héctor took a deep breath as he stared at the rusted back door of  _La Almeja Salada_. Otherwise known as his last chance to even get a single bottle of tequila. Héctor had salvaged that door off a cargo ship that had ghosted into one of the many forgotten harbors that dotted this area-- though not so forgotten that everyone else hadn’t gotten all the good stuff first. He’d given it to Tito García as part of some trade or another, to give his business some character some fifty odd years ago. It used to be the front door. Héctor wasn’t surprised it had been relegated to back here given how the place had been upscaled, and had noticed that after a while he wasn’t really welcome inside, at least not for gratis drinks for improving the atmosphere.

At least Tito hadn’t forgotten what he’d looked like, considering he’d badgered him a few months ago. Besides the fact that he was generally a pretty nice guy and wouldn’t go around slamming the door in his face.

“Alright,” Héctor said, tugging at his  _chaqueta_  and straightening his hat. “Wish me luck,” he said to Dante who was sitting beside him, tail thumping on the ground. The  _alebrije_  barked which seemed as good a wish as any and he took another deep breath.

“Show time.” He paced forward and rang the delivery bell, knowing that would be answered rather than a knock on the door. After ten minutes or so a frumpled woman with tired eyes peered out at him.

“You’re not the delivery man,” she said.

“Sure I am!” Héctor said automatically. “I have something personally for  _Señor_  García. A letter, I think. Is he in?”

“ _Un segundo_ ,” she said and shut the door so hard it reverberated. He winced a little then straightened his chaqueta once more, preparing for round two. This time it took a little longer and he was tempted to sneak around the front when the door opened and Tito appeared.

“ _Hola_!” Héctor said, smiling as bright as he could.

“No,” Tito said. He started to close the door but Héctor grabbed onto it, holding it against closing with all his strength. Which was taking kind of more than he thought it would and he hoped Tito wasn’t really desperate because phalanges were always so delicate to call back and especially hard if they were on the wrong side of the door.

“Hey, don’t be like that,  _amigo_ ,” Héctor said, trying to keep his smile. “All I’m asking for is two bottles of tequila. I’m willing to work for it!” he added.

“Do you have to do this now?” Tito groaned. “It’s two days to the New Year. Have you seen what it’s like in there?” Tito gestured to the bustling kitchen, gold chain around his wrist flashing and scraping a bit against his bone. It really was a mess in there. Cooks bustled this way and that, waiters and waitresses dodging in and out with trays of food through swinging doors— It looked exciting! And the faint smell of food gave him a memory of his mouth watering.

“Ah,  _sí_ ,” Héctor said, rubbing his arm. “I know it’s kind of bad timing, but I promise--”

“Oh a promise from Rivera,” he said and Héctor winced. “You still owe me that moped from eight months ago. I put a lot into that  _fiesta_  for you.”

“ _Lo siento_.” It hadn’t even been his  _fiesta_ , but one for a local  _pandillero_  who had recently died and was being welcomed back by his  _jefe_. Not that he’d known the  _hombre_  was a  _pandillero_. He’d just found out that the man had a sister who had a friend who had a brother whose loco ex-girlfriend was recently let out of jail for being a little too good at being the head of the  _Lado Oeste_  Chapter of the Ernesto De la Cruz Fanclub. From her, he’d learned where Ernesto would be rehearsing and that Ceci, who he hadn’t known at the time, was a costume designer and was dating someone who used to throw rocks at her window to get her attention.

Héctor would have liked to sit that guy down and tell him that that was never as good a plan as it seemed to be.

Anyway, after he’d managed to squirm out of the chair the loco ex-girlfriend had tied him in, had gone to  _El Loft del Artista_  and had cleverly threw his arm at the window instead, getting it kidnapped; but at the same time getting to worm his way into Ceci’s good graces as a gopher and occasional living mannequin.

The point was, while he should have been more careful vetting the  _pandillero_  before begging Tito to host the  _fiesta_ , the resultant fire wasn’t exactly his fault because anyone could drop a lit cigar into a trash can.

“Iiii’m still working on that,” he said, meaning the moped and adding a mental note to find a way to get one. He was usually good at holding up his end of the bargain.

Usually.

Sometimes.

Mostly….

Either way…!

“And I’ll get it for you, I swear.” And he would. Try. “Buut come on, the tequila isn’t even for me but the  _Fiesta_  de  _Olvidado_.”

“Héctor--”

“And it’s pretty hard to get good tequila down there this time of year, so I thought it would be a little treat. It is the spirit of the season,” he said, leaning into the last line a bit like it was a joke, waggling his eyebrows.

“It was the spirit of the season two weeks ago,” said Tito, not even stopping to appreciate the pun. “ _Lo siento_ , but come back after the holidays and I might have something.” He began to pull the door harder and Héctor nearly lost his grip and quickly put his foot in, apologizing mentally for Tito’s gusty sigh.

“It’s for Chicharrón,” Héctor added quickly, laying his last card on the table. “His… his memorial…” Back when it was still a cantina, Cheech been one of Tito’s best customers until he’d got kicked out for starting too many fights. But they’d had a bond, being born roughly around the same time and in the same state, though about a hundred miles from each other.

Tito gave him a tired look.

“That’s low, even for you.”

“It’s…it’s the truth,” Héctor said, holding up his hands, stung. What did Tito think of him? Sure he wasn’t completely honest and didn’t always manage to keep up his end of the bargain but he wouldn’t lie about this.

 Tito sighed and opened the door and Héctor felt the knot unwind from behind his ribs as he knew that he’d won

“ _Bien, bien_ ,” Tito said in a tired way. “Come on. Wash the dishes for a few hours and I’ll give you a couple of bottles. But that’s it!”

“ _Gracias_!” Héctor said with a grin, making his way happily into the chaos. “You won’t regret it!”

“I already do,” Tito said and Héctor had to wince at that. Ah, but he’d make it up to him somehow. He could get that moped he promised and maybe something else! Maybe he’d come across another ghost ship or something interesting in one of the junkyards that Tito could use for decor. He also had to make it up to Ceci too, he reminded himself, trying to keep a running tally.

Ceci and Tito.

“Alright,” Héctor said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Lead me to the sink!”

 Tito sighed and rolled his eyes in a way that Héctor was used to but still made him feel a tiny bit worse and lead him to a spot against the wall where an an  _esqueleto_  with fresh white bones and a cloud of salt and pepper hair was working through a mound of dishes taller than he was.

“Alright, Ortega,” Tito said. “Go take a break.”

“Ok,” the man said with a shrug before ambling off. Héctor slid gratefully into his spot, giving Tito thumbs up.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m an old hand at dishes. Did them while I was alive even!”

“Make sure he stays out of trouble,” Tito said to Dante who was sitting there, wings cocked and panting. Dante barked as if saying he would, but Héctor knew better. If anything the dog turned  _alebrije_  would cause trouble. But not tonight! Héctor was determined that nothing would go wrong! He would get the dishes done and get the tequila and nothing would stop him.

“You behave too,” Héctor told him after Tito had walked back to his office. Dante whined, resting his head on his paws and giving him cow eyes. Héctor smirked and picked off a scrap of forgotten meat from the plate, dropping it and watching Dante snap it up in mid-air.

“Good boy,” he said with a laugh, ruffling his ears, then cheerfully got to work. It was a pretty easy job, washing dishes in the Land of the Dead. He hadn’t quite enjoyed it as much in the Land of the Living, he remembered. There had been a lot more scrubbing involved, not to mention lugging the water from the well or the pump. Indoor plumbing was an amazing innovation.

 Aside from that, once the dish went into the water, whatever food was left slid right off with a few swishes of a cloth. Well, so long as the food was the stuff that came floating by on ghost ships or appeared spontaneously in the marketplaces sometimes. Food from the Land of the Living had staying power.

He remembered once he was doing the dishes for some  _mucho rico_  -- who he couldn’t even remember the name of right now, but he’d owed the butler a favor-- and there had been a bit of yam stuck to the plate which he’d taken a bite of and --

_Ay._

It was the yammiest yam he’d ever tasted. It had made his knees weak just to have that sensation go through him. And he didn’t even have any real memories connected to yam but that Land of the Living food sure had given him some! Maybe he should find some to take down to shanty town for the  _fiesta_. Maybe if he washed dishes for three hours he could earn an extra bottle to eventually trade up someone for their  _Dia de Muertos_ leftovers. Also keep his ear to the ground for a moped, he reminded himself. And something something for Ceci. Maybe he could figure out her favorite food or a flower she liked and give it to her. Oh, and he probably, maybe? Possibly? Should get something for Imelda but one crises at a time.

But whatever he ended up doing or getting, he also needed to get some good contacts for next year because he’d been slacking in that area and…

…and… did he…did he need contacts?

The thought made him slow, made him stop, staring at the dish and only just seeing his watery shadowy reflection.

After all, all he’d ever needed-- all he’d ever done here in the Land of the Dead it felt like was to struggle for one more year to find a way to cross that bridge. He’d already lost that chance. He put a hand to his _chaqueta_ , remembering where the picture of that  _idiota_  had sat, close to the ghost of his heart, one last chance at getting there. He didn’t blame Miguel for losing it, but it felt as buried as he was now.

And it bothered him, he could admit that, but he was grateful that he was alive still, that he could see her again only…

Only what was left for him to do? He was going to be the  _familia_ ’s loco  _tío_  sure, and one of the  _olvidado_  in shanty town, even though-- even though he wasn’t an  _olvidado_  any more. Did he even really belong there? The thought made ice creep along his bones. He wasn’t one or the other. He was somewhere in between. Not a  _músico_ , not not a  _músico_. Married and not married. Papá to a girl… no… woman… no…  _tatara abuela_  who hadn’t known him in ninety odd years-- so not really a Papá at all.

He felt suddenly in between somehow. Thin. As if, even while his bones were still there, in reality, who he was was nothing but something already fading. Faded.

“Come on,  _muchacho_. You’re killing yourself here,” he groaned leaning back from the sink. “You have got to focus! Who cares if you have nothing to focus on? Just keep moving!”

And maybe not talk to yourself out loud, he thought, noticing he was being stared at by some of the cooks. Fortunately, Tito didn’t seem to be around so he ducked his head and got back to work. He noticed out of the corner of his eye Dante starting to sniff his way elsewhere in the kitchen.

“Sit,” he said and Dante sat, giving him an innocent perked eared expression which Héctor didn’t trust for a minute. Dante hadn’t gotten into too much trouble, despite his tendency to snatch femurs and tibias when people weren’t looking, and Héctor wanted to keep it that way. Though he still didn’t trust Dante to stay that way, so he grabbed him gently by the scruff and hauled him forward so he could brace the dog between his legs. Dante whined and Héctor patted his head.

“I know, but trust me this is the best for both of us.”

Now he could focus.

And he would!

This would go without a hitch.

For Chicharrón’s sake!

For Tito’s!

It was easy! Just dish in, dish out. Dish in, dish out. Glass in, glass out. Gather a handful of forks like a bouquet and remember fondly when he used to give them to Imelda as if they were flowers, just to tease. He loved to wash dishes with her, especially in the evening with the slanted warm sunlight coming in, the cooling day-- watching her hands work in the water which flecked up her arms. He loved the way that she would start to hum, even, seeming to pay attention to nothing else as she worked, passing him the dishes wordlessly as they moved in effortless sync. Sometimes Coco would help, too, sitting on the counter, helping him dry her own little dishes and hum just like Mamá.

“ _Work_ , Rivera!” Tito snapped and Héctor blinked, realizing he’d stopped again. He was snapped back into the present under the harsh lights and an army of  _esqueleto_  staff, working heatedly in a busy kitchen. Imelda was as dead as he was, and Coco was an old woman.

He couldn’t stay in here like this. He couldn’t. It was too repetitive, and he’d just fall back into memories which were the last thing he needed right now. Asking to do something else was going to be a big risk. He knew he was walking on the edge but… he had to ask. He was definitely not getting anything done at this rate. He took off his hat, holding it between his hands and, careful to step over Dante, made his way to where Tito was standing by one of the fancy refrigerators.

“No,” he said.

“It’s not that I don’t want to work,” Héctor said, diving ahead anyway. “Buuut is there something a little more… I don’t know… active? My brain is starting to go numb over there.”

“That’s why they call it  _work_ ,” Tito said, then looked at him and sighed again.  “But  _fine_ , so long as you go beg somewhere else for the next fifty years.”

“Ah,  _sí_ , I promise,” Héctor said, trying to juggle the sting of it with the thought of:  _hijole_!, he was probably going to be alive fifty years from now.

And maybe even longer than that!

A whole swath of an unknown life stretched out before him and he didn’t know what to do with it.

Right now he was going to do whatever Tito told him to do, Héctor thought to himself, following the man back to the sink. After that it’d take care of itself.

“Here,” Tito said, thrusting a black plastic tub at him. “Go bus.” He squinted at Héctor. “You do know how to bus, don’t you?”

“Pfth of course I know how to bus!” Héctor said, flapping a hand. “I’ve been bussing before you were born! That was my first job!” Well maybe he was laying it on a little thick…And… He actually had no idea what he was doing. “Buuut it’s been a few years so…maybe a  _pequeño_  reminder?” he said, trying to indicate with his fingers just how  _pequeño_  a reminder he needed. Tito gave him a long look and for a minute Héctor thought the man would force-feed him the tub, but then he rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment and seemed to say a silent prayer which Héctor tried not to feel bad about. Maybe he should do the dishes instead, but it was too late to back out now.

“Just go to all the tables that have been left and put the dishes in the tub,” Tito said. “Then you wipe the table off with this little rag.” He wiggled a dingy gray little thing before dropping it into the tub. “And when the tub is full, bring it back here.”

That sounded easy enough! He could do this no problem.

“You can count on me!” Héctor said, trying to sound cheerful. Tito just sighed and headed back the way he had come, Héctor started for the swinging double doors when a horrible realization shot like a needle of ice through his back.

“Dante,” he snapped, whipping his head around to catch the  _alebrije_  with his mouth open over an unattended plate of fish.  Dante looked at him with wide innocent eyes. Héctor gave him a stern look and patted his thigh, ordering the dog to heel, not willing to take no for an answer. Dante heaved a doggy sigh and fluttered over to him, the rest of his lanky colorful body draping down as if it was in a sulk.

“I’ll get you something to eat, okay? Stop moping,” Héctor said, ruffling his ears. Dante licked his face happily then dropped to all fours as Héctor opened the double doors for him and followed him out into the restaurant proper. Right away, he felt better. He bounced a bit from foot to foot as he took in the scene.

_La Almeja Salada_  was alive this time of night, packed with happy chatting customers, both at the bar and the added on restaurant. He remembered when this place was just a slat of wood resting on some rusted barrels! Now it was sleek and shining with a mirrored bar behind it, shining light making the bottles of liquor look like jewels. Two flat televisions sat above the bar, one showing a  _fútbol_  game, the other a segment from some variety show _. Viernes Grande_  he thought. On it, some poor  _hombre_  with a comb-over was singing something while scantily clad  _esqueletas_  danced around and clapped.

Whatever song he was singing was a mystery. Both televisions had the sound turned off, or else he couldn’t hear them over the other song that played through the restaurant. Something modern and catchy but also kind of smooth and he wanted to dance to it almost.

No.

Not almost.

He did want to dance. Maybe even sing, even if under his breath. Guilt stabbed through him immediately, but then just as quickly he tried to shake it off.

After all… After all things had changed now, hadn’t they? This is kind of what Imelda wanted, wasn’t it?

He tilted his head, feeling a flutter of nerves as he purposefully listened to the lyrics.

 

“ _Voy buscando una lady_  
_Como t_   _ú la quiero así_  
_Quiero que te enamores_  
_Como estoy yo de ti_

_A casa enviarte flores_  
_Y en tu nombre escribir_  
_Mil canci_   _ónes de amores_  
_Pa_   _’ que pienses en mí_  
_Como yo pienso en ti_ ” 

“I'm Searching for a Lady  
I want her just like you  
I want you to fall in love  
The way I'm in love with you

Send flowers to your house  
And write in your name  
A Thousand love songs  
So that you think of me  
The way I think of you”

 

Okay, maybe he didn’t want to dance after all.

Instead he was going to tune the song out completely for his own sanity.

He looked around for an abandoned table, finding one almost right away.  _Caramba_ , there was a lot of stuff left behind, Héctor thought as he looked over it. Three half full glasses, a plate with a couple of shrimp like things on it and small little fish. A half chewed  _quesadilla_  on a bed of rice. He didn’t get it, he thought as he downed the drinks, marveling once again at the taste of cola. Maybe it was different in the Land of the Dead where, hey, no one was starving. But why leave food on the plate at all?

Well he could understand the fish. He never got people who ate fish.

He set the fish and shrimpy bits on the floor for Dante and popped the rest of the  _quesadilla_  in his mouth before stuffing the rice in a napkin for later. This was a good job. He wondered why he hadn’t done it before!

He swiped all the remaining dishes and napkins and things into the tub and wiped the crumbs off the table with the rag and felt accomplished. Finally some real work! Finally doing some good in the world! He moved onto the next table. Someone had left most of a tasty margarita. There was a huge bowl of shucked clams, already eaten, and a smaller bowl nearly empty of buttery sauce. Héctor used the shell of the clam to scoop some of it out and tasted it.  _Muy delicioso_  if you asked him.

The table after that looked like the aftermath of a war zone. Napkins were tossed everywhere, one glass was on its side, someone had arranged shrimp tails into a smiley face; Héctor absently poked one back into place with his finger. There was a forest of empty glasses and tankards, too. One which still had a little under half of the beer left.

“Looks like they had fun,” he said, remembering more than one night like this spent drinking and eating and having too much fun to care. He hadn’t done anything like that in years, and many of the friends he’d done it with had long since gone onto the Final Death. He saluted them with the glass of beer and sipped at it rather than guzzling it all at once. Actually, now that he thought about it, nothing was preventing him from having a rowdy night again! It might be fun to gather up a few of the  _olvidado_  and go from place to place, drinking and eating like they belonged there without having to worry about anyone else.

Hey! Maybe he could even do that with the  _familia_  too! Okay… Well maybe not Imelda or Victoria yet. And the twins… well, he still wasn’t sure what they thought of him other than not well, and maybe Felipe would think even worse by the time  _this_  conversation ended-- but Julio might be fun to take along and even Rosita.

He thought about this, sipping the beer and absently watching one of the flat televisions above the bar. The  _fútbol_  had been replaced with a smiling woman behind a desk, talking about the news. What a thing technology was! No reading days old stories in newspapers! Now it was almost as soon as it happened. Héctor watched idly, trying to read her mouth and get something related to the picture of the  _tranvía_  next to her, then she shuffled her papers, looked back up at the screen and the picture changed to Ernesto.

Héctor nearly choked.

 The picture they showed of him was just a promo image of him smiling smoothly into the camera, one eyebrow raised in his ‘ _hola, señorita_ ’ pose. It was probably nothing to be worried, Héctor told himself, crossing one arm under the other and sipping at the empty glass. They were probably just announcing a come back or a concert or maybe a retirement from public life? That would be the day, he thought with a snort. Anyway it definitely wasn’t because something bad happened, despite how somber the news lady looked.

And if it was something bad that happened, he had it coming and Héctor didn’t care.

The picture flickered to show a construction crew with a crane lifting a giant bell and Ernesto being hauled down the steps between two  _policia_ , his head down, a faint red stain on the front of his white  _charro_  suit. The word ‘Missing’ in a yellow bar at the top of the screen. Héctor scrambled to the bar dancing around a waiter at the last second, desperate to hear this before it ended.

“Hey! Hey!” Héctor said, leaning on the bar and snapping his fingers to catch the barman’s attention. “Turn up the sound! The Ernesto one! Quick!”

“Listen,  _hombre_ \-- ” the barman started.

“ _Por favor_ ,” Héctor said, clapping his hands together. “I’m begging you. I’ll make it worth your while I swear!”

The barman sighed and pulled a small remote from a drawer. Héctor leaned forward as the newswoman’s voice grew louder.

“…been under house arrest since being taken from under the  _Campanero Muerto_  bell after the incident at the Sunrise Spectacular…” the woman was saying and Héctor winced a little.  _Lo siento_ , he thought automatically, remembering how Ernesto had died.

“Incident?” said a man near Héctor’s elbow. “Didn’t he throw that living kid off a roof?”

“ _Exactamente_!” Héctor snapped, wanting to slap himself. “Just to protect his stupid reputation! We shouldn’t feel sorry for him even a little, right?!”

“Right!” the man said.

“Down with De la Cruz!” said a woman and Héctor cringed as someone else added: “Murderer!” and the barman said:

“I never liked him to begin with.”

Right. This was good. This was excellent. This was how it should be. He wasn’t the least bit worried as the newswoman went on to say that he’d been missing from his  _bobo_  tower since at least yesterday, no word on how well he had healed. It was fine. It was fine. It wasn’t as if he was going to face the Final Death any time soon. And…and he deserved… deserved to be a little cracked… He bit his knuckle a little as they showed the image of him being dragged out again, further down the steps, to the waiting car, no sight of his  _alebrije_ s.

“If I saw him I’d show him what we do to murderers,” said the man beside Héctor’s elbow. Héctor held up his hands.

“Ah, well, let’s not go overboard.”

“Are you joking?” said the man. “If I saw him, you’d better believe he’d remember me!” he continued, brandishing his fist with an ugly laugh. White heat flashed through him and Héctor kept his hands clenched at his sides. The urge to knock the  _cabron_  from his barstool was nearly overwhelming. How dare he use the song like that! That precious song…

But it was stupid, he told himself, to get so angry. He’d heard that joke before and it had always pricked him but he’d gotten over it. Just because it was about Ernesto… Just because it was about beating Ernesto who was already down… To use it against his best friend--

Who wasn’t his best friend and he needed to uncurl his fists and stop glaring at the man who was starting to go from looking surprised to looking ready to fight, his jaw jutting out. He just needed to shake it off. That was all. To smile and break the tension and make a stupid joke.

But just this  _once_.

He didn’t want to.

And if the man wanted a fight then-

Suddenly there was a chorus of screams and a terrific crash. Héctor nearly jolted his bones apart as he jumped, looking wildly around the restaurant, half expecting  _federales_  to have barged in. Instead, he saw a group of  _esqueleto_ s standing around Dante. The dog was sitting in the middle of a mess of broken dishes and spilled food, having apparently flipped one table into another, a fish in his mouth. He looked around, whined, and carefully put the fish on the floor.

Héctor could only blink at him stupidly.

“Rivera!” Tito’s voice snapped through the air like a shot and Héctor bolted.

“Time to go!” He called to Dante in passing, running as fast as he could out of pure instinct. He tumbled out of the door, half tripping over Dante who sped out between his legs, and together they pelted through the crowds, dodging this way and that until he found an alley he could duck in and press his back against the wall, panting for breath he didn’t need.

After a while he came back to himself and he sunk to the ground, dragging his hands over his face.

What had that been about?

That anger… That pure hot feeling… That wasn’t like him at all.

The only other time was when…when he’d tackled Ernesto to the floor, wanting to punch him, wanting to do anything to hurt him for all that he’d done.

And yet he’d just been in there wanting to defend him. He couldn’t help but remember how Ernesto had looked so defeated. So broken. It hurt to see. And yet…

Ernesto had hurt the  _familia_.

Héctor dropped his hands between his knees and looked up at the faint scrap of misty sky he could see. True night was purpling the mists. He wondered if there were stars beyond them. He wondered if there was the moon peeking down somewhere. He wondered why he was such an  _idiota_. All his life, it was as if he could never get anything right.

And now he was feeling sorry for himself.

And he was still out tequila.

The thought made him breathe a sad laugh.

Figured.

Dante whined and nuzzled up under his arm, then licked his chin. Héctor tried to be mad at him. He really did. This  _alebrije_  was even more of a disaster than him. And he’d never be able to go back to  _La Almeja Salada_  again, that was for sure. But somehow he only felt amused.

“Hey, listen,” he said, shifting so he could massage Dante’s ears. “I know you used to be a street dog, so a lot of that is still with you. But I’ve got you. I won’t let you go hungry okay?”

Dante wuffed and licked his face, squirming to get closer. Héctor let him, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck, feeling loved at least by someone.

“It looks like we’re not going to get that tequila either,” he murmured to the dog. “Unless we get really lucky.” And he didn’t count on it. “At least no one will be surprised!” he said, trying to sound cheerful, trying to make it a joke. Even with the only audience being himself and the dog, it fell flat, a solid thunk on the ground and he sighed. No use dwelling on it, he thought. At least not right now. He had one more important thing to do this evening.

“Come on,” he said, giving Dante a final pat before standing. “Let’s go find Felipe.” Which would go as amazingly as everything else this evening, he was sure. But at least he was prepared for it.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

It didn’t take long to find Felipe, or at least where he might be. Héctor had always kept an ear to the ground for news of the  _familia_  and what they were up to. At least for Imelda and the twins because he knew them and knew what circles they moved in. At first it was just out of hope, that one day Imelda would forgive him-- later on it was a desperation, wanting to cling to some sort of  _familia_  because he’d felt like he was losing himself. These days, at least for the past ten or so years, he’d been trying to avoid listening altogether. Still, he’d figured out enough of Felipe’s habits to know he liked to go out most Fridays; and, more importantly, where.

Still, he hesitated as he looked at the little cantina tucked under a curving bit of overpass.  _Casa de Navarro_ , it was called. Héctor had never been inside, hadn’t even really been near enough to peek in the windows. Back when he was lonely or desperate, he would just sit here, across the road, shadowed by the phone booth, and hope to catch sight of Felipe.

“Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?” he said to Dante who was busy sniffing around. Well, he didn’t have to have the  _alebrije_  confirm it to know it was. At least it hadn’t taken him long to stop. But this time he was actually doing a good thing. He wasn’t just hanging on. He was going to go in there and hopefully find Felipe and ask him about Imelda’s birthday so he wouldn’t mess things up further.

Only… He rubbed his arm. He didn’t want to disturb him. But he had to ask one of them and, of the two, Felipe had always been easier to talk to, even when he was annoyed. He tugged his hat on and nodded, squaring his shoulders with renewed determination.

“Okay,” he said to himself, to the  _alebrije_ , prayed to whatever deity was out there. “Let’s get in and out and not screw this up.” Dante barked as if in agreement. No deity made any sort of reply, but Héctor wouldn’t have said no to a hopeful roll of thunder. But he didn’t need it. So long as he kept to a simple question and got a simple answer and was out of there, what could go wrong?

He marched across the plaza toward the place, slowing down so he wouldn’t look like a complete  _idiota_  and had to prepare himself once more as he slipped under the concrete awning and stopped before the red door. In and out, he told himself. Just get in, ask, get out. And, hey, maybe he’d be lucky and Felipe wouldn’t even be there!

No, he needed Felipe to be there.

He could do this.

It would be fine.

Though it would be finer if a schmaltzy cover of ‘ _Mi Canción de Amor_ ’ didn’t come pouring out the minute he opened the door. He glowered at nothing as he stood in the doorway. He hated that song. Ernesto wanted to sing it all the time on the road to México City.

It had been a joke at first. A parody at first. He’d thought Ernesto had gotten that. That was why he’d called it  _Mi Canción de Amor_. A full overblown dramatic song about love and hope with all the subtlety of a charging bull. But Ernesto had loved to sing it and audiences had loved to hear it, but Héctor had the feeling that Ernesto just loved belting out:

“Only a song has the power to change a heart!”

Granted, he’d been able to do it well. There wasn’t a lyric Ernesto couldn’t belt and turn it into some powerful movement until you sat and thought about it for a few minutes. And no one could quite match it, he thought, hearing the similar line played but low-key as if the singer didn’t believe it herself.

“Are you lost,  _Señor_?” said the barman pleasantly, pulling him back into the present. “Or are you just taking in the view.”

“Ahh, no, I’m just looking for someone.” He paused and added: “It is a nice view, though!” This is what he called a cantina! A place like this would look almost at home in his day in a place like Pájaro or México City or somewhere like that. He could even see it in San Menas, but it wasn’t quite homey enough for Santa Cecilia. At least not the one he remembered. There were photos all over the wall, all of a certain guy. An actor, maybe, in different roles. All in black and white. And two  _enorme_  ones over the bar in a fancy frame of the same guy, or what he assumed was the same guy. One living, one dead.

“I’m guessing that’s Navarro,” Héctor said, sidling up to the bar to get a closer look.

“Oh,  _sí_ ,” said the barman. “Our patron. Our shining  _estrella de cine_! Do you know much of him?”     “Nah, I’m not into movies,  _hombre_.” He leaned his elbows back against the bar, looking around the cantina. Dante sat beside him patiently, ears perked and Héctor felt a burst of pride. He would have to reward him once this was over, provided everything went well. He glanced around for Felipe, a mixture of relief and worry going through him as he didn’t immediately spot him. Then a bigger mix of relief and worry when he did. There he was, tucked in the corner, having a close discussion with some shorter  _esqueleto_  who had a snakeish  _alebrije_  curled around his neck.

“Who is this  _hombre_  you’re meeting,  _Señor_?” said the barman. “Maybe I can help you look?”

“Ah, well,” Héctor said, absently nodding at a trio of young looking  _esqueleto_ s who seemed to be staring at him. He kind of couldn’t say that he was stalking the place. The less attention he drew to himself the better. He should really get going. “You know, actually, I don’t think he’s here right now.” Sí, for right now this was the best plan. “Soo I think I’m gonna just--”

And then Felipe noticed him. Startled. Then sighed and raised a single finger telling him to wait.

“--Hannng around a while and wait,” Héctor finished with a sting of guilt. He’d make it up to him somehow, too.

Felipe, Ceci and… well how he was going to make it up to Tito was probably never darkening his doorstep again which was sad since he kind of liked that place.

“In that case can I interest you in a drink?”

“Why not,” Héctor said, hopping up on a barstool. He wasn’t sure how he was going to pay for it, but most places wouldn’t let you hang around if you were obviously alone and didn’t buy something. “Beer _, por favor_.”

“What kind?” the barman asked. A question Héctor never understood.

“Any kind.” Beer was beer was beer. The bartender raised his brow bone but didn’t argue, instead taking a heavy glass mug from under the bar. Héctor took the moment to look around at the pictures, studying them. Back here there were some other people too. Some group photos taken in the Land of the Dead and he spotted Felipe among them which made him smile. Though he wondered why Oscar wasn’t here too. There was another framed photo in the gap over the sink. This one was framed almost as fancy as the Navarro guy’s but the picture was a painting of some  _esqueleto_  smirking dreamily as if he’d looked at one too many of Ernesto’s promo photos.

“So who is that guy?” Héctor said, taking his drink. “I’d hate to be in his shoes.” As he was probably a Nesto fan.

“Oh that?” said the barman. “It’s Héctor Rivera.”

Héctor spent the next few seconds choking on his beer while the bartender gently whacked his spine.

“Say again?” he squeaked when his body remembered it had no lungs to breathe with.

“It’s straight out of an artist’s imagination and not a direct likeness, sadly,” said the barman. “Felipe won’t tell us what he looks like. Did you watch the Sunrise Spectacular? Well I’m sure you’ve at least heard of it,” the man continued before Héctor could speak. “But the woman who sang was Felipe’s  _hermana_. What are the odds?”

“Odd,” Héctor repeated while the rest of his brain scrambled around trying to make sense of this. It didn’t connect. Why would… why would  _that_  be here? Which artist was painting him like that and why?

“It seems a pretty  _loco_  thing to have up there,” he said, laughing too loudly and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mmh, well it used to be De la Cruz. Only we don’t condone murderers here.” The barman sniffed and Héctor winced. “But some of those songs are so important to us we had to pay tribute to their creator! Obviously a quiet, sensitive man.”

For some reason it made Héctor want to die all over again. The barman leaned in, murmuring as if in confidence.

“There’s been rumors lately that he may be one of us, but Felipe says he’s definitely not. That he’s hopelessly devoted to  _Señora_  Rivera.”

“Who wouldn’t be,” Héctor said automatically. “Have you seen her? Even dead she can look right through you. She’s amazing! And the way she dances? The way she commands the floor?  _Dios mio_ , it leaves your heart right in your throat!  You’d do anything for that look! If she asked me to dance on hot coals I’d say how hot. If she asked me to drink poison I’d say from a cup or a glass.” He winced at that and something roared up in the back of his head large and overwhelming. He shut the door on that so hard it almost made his skull rattle and came back to himself just as the barman was giving him a long look.

“You really don’t know where you are, do you?”

“Uhh…” Was that a trick question? It felt like a trick question. “ _Casa de Navarro_?”

“He is too much,” said one of the hombres from the table, sounding amused.

“What’s your name?” said the other. “Want to come sit with us?”

“You  _cabrons_  keep your mitts off,” the barman said goodnaturedly, flapping a towel at them.

“No, it’s okay,” Héctor said, slipping off the barstool and grabbing his drink. “I could use a little company…” And anything to turn away from the picture of the not!him which was giving him the shivers the longer he looked at it. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to get this night over with. He grinned at the three  _hombres_  that had invited him to the table, wondering about their small smiles and exchanged glances as if there was some joke he wasn’t getting. Well, he didn’t care.

“So--” He was about to set his beer on the table and go into the getting to know you phase when he saw the man who had been sitting with Felipe striding toward the front of the bar, the snake  _alebrije_  coiling against his neck. He caught Héctor in a piercing look and a thin smile seemed to crack across his mouth.

“Oh _, Buenos Noches, Primo_ ,” the man said with sarcasm so withering Héctor backed up a step without even fully being aware of it, holding the beer as a shield. “I’d introduce myself but it seems we’ll have to wait  _another hundred years_ ,” he called over his shoulder; then whipped away and stalked through the door, slamming it behind him so hard the glass buzzed.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the thin song warbling from the speakers that seemed to imply that bad girls had all the fun. The hombres at the table turned back toward one another and the barman began to whistle and turned up the volume.

Héctor kind of wanted to go to.

To just slip out the door and pretend he’d never been.

He was sure Felipe’d be happy about that too.

He looked down at Dante who was looking back up at him, head tilted, ears cocked, as if it was his own decision to stay or leave. He’d rather have a straight answer. A  _sí_  or no. But maybe it had to be a  _sí_  because he was running out of time to ask the question.

He shook himself off and took a swallow of beer to steady himself, then went to Felipe’s table, unsure of whether to smile or not. Felipe was rubbing his forehead, looking pained, which didn’t help the expression decision-- so Héctor decided on something vaguely apologetic and stood with uncertainty by the table.

“Ah, I seem to have come at a bad time,” he said, not ready to leave but would if Felipe wanted him to. The man sighed, a sound so deep it rattled his ribcage.

“Wake me up when there’s a good time,” he muttered and Héctor winced. He knew he was at least to blame for some of that. “We’ve only been officially together for seven months and he already wants to meet the  _familia_!” Felipe muttered, shaking his head and resting his chin on his fist.

“Iiit seems, I don’t know, normal?” Héctor said, deciding to take the risk and slide in the seat across from him. He didn’t really know per se. That’s what all the stories and songs seemed to imply that meeting the  _familia_  was  _muy importante_. Getting along with your fiance’s Mamá, asking your fiancée’s Papá for her hand in marriage.

Suddenly he felt an intense sympathy for Julio having to ask Imelda for Coco’s hand in marriage and had a new respect for the nerves of steel that man possessed. He didn’t know how Coco and Imelda were then, he thought, with an equally intense wave of sadness; but he knew just from knowing Imelda that Julio would have to be the best to even consider getting in the doorway. It left him feeling proud. It left him feeling miserable. But they must have had a wonderful romance. They must have had a wonderful marriage.

He wanted to ask Felipe about it and only just stopped himself since Felipe was currently going through troubles of his own.

“It’s just not a good time,” Felipe said. “I know I promised him that I’d do it during  _Las Posadas_  but between inventory, and music and the  _estupido_  shrines it’s been impossible.” He looked up at Héctor suddenly, reaching over and gripping wrist. “Don’t tell me you told these  _idiota_ s who you were,” he said in a hushed voice. Héctor had to take a moment, a bit startled by the contact.

“Um. Ah, no. No, I didn’t.”

“ _Bien_ ,” Felipe said, sitting back. “Don’t.” And then. “How did you know where I was anyway?”

“Well…” Héctor said with a wince, trying to figure out the best way to say to say that heee’d been sort of stalking for a long while, or the best way to lie about it. But then Felipe’s gaze moved to the floor and he relaxed.

“Oh.”

Oh?

And then he saw Dante’s head appear over the table, panting, asking for pets which Felipe obliged.

Oh.

Héctor let out a quiet breath into his beer glass and tried to look as if he wasn’t just relaxing from relief. He was more than glad to let Dante take the blame for that. He took another sip of his beer, still feeling the faint vibration of the touch and watched Felipe absorbed in petting Dante. Even though he’d kind of gotten used to this face, it was weird connecting it to the wiry nineteen-year-old he knew last, who barely had fuzz, let alone a neat mustache. Felipe had been intense in those days, too. Calm but with banked coals behind his eyes. Would those eyes still hold that fire, Héctor wondered?

He kind of didn’t want to know, but only because he kind of thought he did.

“How is the  _familia_?” he asked, going back over what Felipe had told him. Inventory he got, music he could guess at, shrines was new and sounded like something else to add to the “things-he’d-destroyed-in-the- _familia_ ’s-lives” list.

“Stop that,” Felipe said to Dante. “Settle down…” Dante disappeared mostly below the table then and Felipe huffed a breath, adjusting his glasses and his mustache before giving Héctor a look. “Fine. More or less. The holidays are  _loco_  for everyone. Right now Mamá Imelda and Julito have been hip deep in inventory-- ”

Julito. Héctor grinned at the nickname.

“--We have had a flood of orders for this spring and not even Victoria’s filing…thingy can keep up with it. She’s having to overhaul the whole system. Most of it is because we have a lucky brand now,” Felipe continued, making sarcastic marks with his fingers. Héctor didn’t get it but nodded anyway, sipping his beer and imagining Imelda and Julio-- Julito, he thought with a grin-- working hard in sorting through…

Through…stuff.

He didn’t know.

Boxes.

Shoes.

He imagined Imelda’s face peppered with sweat. Her leaning to soothe her lower back and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, her eyes closed so the fringe of lashes splayed on her warm cheekbones. Dios mio but she was beautiful when she worked.

Felipe sighed.

“Stop mooning over Mamá Imelda and pay attention,” he said.

“Oh,  _lo siento_ ,” Héctor said, sitting up a little straighter and trying to focus. Imelda and Julio working. Victoria’s filing system …thingy suddenly  _no bueno_. How smart was she to even think of a filing system…thingy? She definitely had Imelda’s brains, he thought with a grin, then quickly pulled himself from that line of thought. It still left three people unaccounted for.

 “Doesn’t Rosita help out?” Héctor asked, wondering how she was, wondering suddenly how the gala went but deciding not to open that can of very large worms.

“She’s had her hands full with the store,” Felipe said. “Some  _primos_  have come over to help out but they’re staying halfway across the city.  Mamá Imelda is thinking of renting a room for them nearby. At least until things settle down.”

Ohh, more  _primos_. Who were they? Did they follow the music ban too? The  _familia_  seemed to be getting bigger every day and he wondered how he was going to keep up with it. But right now he didn’t have to worry about them, whoever they were, he thought. So four out of six down. That only left…

“And what about the hero twins?” Héctor said, trying to be funny. Felipe did not look amused and his own grin faded.

“We’ve been busy working with the  _policia_  trying to shoo people away and stop agents from cold calling the house. Fortunately there’s only been a few that manage to sneak in to set up shrines. Either that or for some reason Pepita lets them. Who knows what goes on in her mind?”

“ _Policia_?” Héctor echoed, remembering with a cringe Ernesto being hauled down the steps. But that was also for another time that should definitely be nowhere close to this one because he knew that was one thing which he should under no circumstances bring up. So, back to safer ground.

“Agents? Shrines? ” He couldn’t wrap his head around what could be happening.

“ _Sí_. Some to Imelda, some to the mysterious  _músico_.” Felipe made a face and sipped his own beer. “None to De la Cruz yet but that can’t be far off.”

“Mysterious  _músico_?” Héctor said, more confused than before. Why were they setting up shrines to some mysterious  _músico_  outside of Imelda’s house?

Felipe’s look got even flatter.

“The same one who is in the  _estupido_  picture over the sink.”

The  _estupido_  picture over the--

Wait--

“You mean--?” Héctor pointed to himself. Felipe gave him a look that told him this was obvious even to an ant. Héctor held up his hands: “Oh no. No no no. I don’t want anything to do with that.”

“Clearly,” Felipe said. “Which is why you’re not around now. And obviously why you left in the first place.”

Héctor grimaced, feeling like he’d been punched twice in the same spot, a sharp jab, too; the kind that left bruises for days. He wasn’t sure what to say to any of it either. How to defend himself. Wondering even if he should. Should he be at the  _hacienda_  more? Probably. But…

“Iit’s just every time I seem to cause a fight annnd I know Victoria is… not happy. And Oscar is not happy…” And Imelda…well she seemed happy and had even invited him to stay, but he knew the last thing they wanted to see was this  _idiota_  sitting in the kitchen a few days before Christmas. So she would go from happy to very much not and frustrated and it would just be a mess. “So…it just… doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Nothing is a good idea,” Felipe said, sounding frustrated himself and so like Imelda in cadence it stung just a little more. “Go, stay, disappear, never leave—” He shook his head. “I was in an earthquake once. The ground split open like a rind of rotten fruit and I could barely stay on my feet. Two houses fell in and a third was on fire-- everything else was a shambles and that’s what you are, an earthquake, every time.”

Héctor cringed, wishing the world would swallow him up. There was nothing he could say in defense of it and, worse, there was nothing to be done about it either because it made sense. He  _felt_  like a natural disaster. Whatever he did seemed to shake things loose, jar people one way or the other. He seemed to upset everyone and, if he helped, it was only a little-- only to sing a song for a friend in passing or-- or to act as a bobo model. Dante whined deeply and Héctor patted the colorful head that had appeared on his knee.

At least he’d helped Miguel, he thought. He’d given him a chance to sing and play. A moment with the  _familia_. A confidence, a song. He was going to be a fine  _músico_  -- an even finer one than Ernesto he’d bet! Especially since Héctor wasn’t there to trip him up.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Felipe said, voice rough. He had taken off his glasses and was massaging the bone between his eyes. Héctor smiled a little, feeling a wince of sadness. What a good kid he always was.

“No, no  _lo siento_ ,” Héctor said softly, pushing the beer over to him since he looked like he needed it. “You’re right.”

“I’m not right,” Felipe said, putting his glasses back on and blinking at the beer before taking it. “ _Gracias, primo_.”

Ah… Ah he hadn’t been called  _primo_  by one of the twins for so long! It made him almost want to dance. He kept his feet still, petting Dante’s head for something to do with his hands and tried to concentrate. He wanted to believe that Felipe was not right but…

“It’s okay,” Héctor said. “It’s okay because… it’s true. It really is.”

“I envied you,” Felipe said abruptly. “All my life. Even when I hated you.” He shook his head and looked up at him. “Remember that night in Guadalajara… Just before you and Mamá Imelda left…”

“Oh, she hated to leave you behind,” Héctor murmured. And yet she had, for reasons he wasn’t sure of but had something to do with how she felt their lives were separate and didn’t need her in it. Plus, he thought, the road had called to her then too. The wild dangerous freedom of it.

“You told me to be whatever I was, whatever that is…”

“Did I?” he smiled a little. He only faintly remembered the details. It was that other guy who’d said it anyway. The other guy said things like that a lot and Héctor wondered what fresh pain he’d managed to peel up while doing it. He reached for the beer, needing a sip himself, and was grateful when Felipe slid it back.

“ _Gracias_ , Pipo,” Héctor said to tease, to prevent himself from drowning. It was an old nickname. A secret nickname, just between him and the twins. It was partly a shortening of Felipe anyway, but partly from the night they’d nearly got caught in someone else’s hen yard; not to steal, he thought, but to pretend; and for some reason he couldn’t remember Felipe had had a shirt full of very noisy chicks.

“That’s what Paolo called me too the first time we met,” Felipe said with a softer smile, looking at his stretched out fingers on the table. “I was so surprised, I nearly hit him. I thought he was you,” Felipe added and Héctor couldn’t help but half smile at that even as he winced inwardly. Ay. He deserved it anyway.

“Paolo is…” he nodded toward the door where the  _esqueleto_  had stormed out.

“ _Sí_.” Felipe reached for the beer and Héctor slid it back. “I met him in 1953. A few days before Christmas. His  _hermana_  had just married a Santa Cecilian  _hombre_.  _Dios guarde la hora_.”

“ _Dios guarde la hora_ ,” Héctor echoed with a slight laugh.

“Paolo was from México City--  _muy guapo_ , fiery, with a razor sharp wit. He was always getting into fights.” Felipe smiled fondly, eyes shining. “They called him  _Gallito_.”

“Imelda didn’t meet him?” Héctor said, faintly surprised. She had been still alive in 1953 he was mostly sure. She would have enjoyed it.

On the other hand, Paolo might have been too nervous. It had been a dangerous thing in those days, that kind of attraction. Murder wasn’t uncommon and justice was hard to come by. Héctor hadn’t known too much about it when he was alive except for some ask none tell nones they’d encountered here and there and sly innuendos elsewhere; but the dead liked to talk and Héctor liked to listen. There were horror stories, sad stories. Always with some rays of hope or happiness; but mostly incredibly sad, or angry, or bitter. Especially from the  _perdidos_  who felt they had no other option and were rarely happy to find out death wasn’t necessarily the end.

Fortunately the prevailing thought in the land of the dead was ‘ _Qué más da_?’ Who cares? Some people did care. Old habits and thoughts were hard to shake. But after thirty, fifty, ninety years of being dead, you got used to things. People felt more able to be freer and who they really wanted to be rather than be tied to what was expected. The Department of Family Reunions had added post-death counselors which helped too, he thought. It wasn’t like it used to be and he was glad of it.

And for the people that refused to let others be how they were? Well… He smiled down at Dante. A good snarl, or bite, or toss from an  _alebrije_  was usually enough to keep them from hurting anyone anyway

“He wouldn’t’ve then,” Felipe said. “And there was too much going on with the  _familia_. Soccoro was still recovering from a broken hip and she and Mamá Imelda weren’t talking again. The  _niñas_  weren’t talking to each other and Julio was being bogged down trying to play peace maker and worrying about Rosita who had the flu-- and Oscar…” He sighed and shook his head.

That was a lot to take in all at once.

The first he felt was a faint gush of warmth at Felipe calling Coco by her given name. It had been their special thing, or at least it had been when Coco was a little girl. He remembered Felipe holding her on his hip and pointing out the stars or sketching birds or plants in his notebook with her on his lap and muttering: ‘Pay attention, Soccoro. This will be important later.’

But then that warmth was flooded with sharp cold when he talked about the broken hip. That must have been the accident that Julio was talking about but ay, his poor little  _niña_. He couldn’t bear to think about her being hurt like that. And the other  _niñas_  not talking? Victoria… and her  _hermanita_? He didn’t even know her name, Héctor thought with a bolt of piercing sadness that he quickly tried to shake off again. He felt sorry for Julio and Rosita and wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Oscar was going through-- but what stuck out to him most was Imelda and Coco….

“They fought often?”

“They had very different ideas about things,” Felipe said which sounded like a  _sí_  to him. He couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t picture it. Imelda loved Coco too much and Coco was such a sweet  _niña_. What could they have to fight about? He knew there were plenty of things. That they probably had. That Imelda could be obstinate and…who knew what Coco was like? He didn’t. Warm, affectionate, stubborn… But beyond that…

“Anyway,” Felipe said, taking a sip from the beer. “At the end of it, Paolo wanted me to go back to México City with him. He knew someone who knew someone who needed a journalist who wasn’t afraid of travel.” He leaned back, looking up at something, probably catching his own memory and Héctor’s heart warmed a little though he knew where this story was going.

“We talked about it-- I don’t know-- every day that  _Posadas_. For hours at a time. Once or twice all night. We made grand plans to visit this or that and eventually we might move up to the  _Estados Unidos_. Los Angeles, maybe, Phoenix, even New York we thought.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Héctor said breathlessly, feeling a twist of guilt at the thought of wanting to go all those places to. To go everywhere. To see everything.

“And I wanted to go with him,” Felipe said. “I wanted to be the me that I was…To cast myself into that wind.” Felipe looked at him. “To be like you.”

Héctor felt a surge of pride.

Then saw the hardness in his eyes and it tumbled back down again into a deeper guilt that pulled at his ribs. To go out on and adventure and leave everyone behind, that expression said. To be selfish at the expense of others. To explore that dream and love and let loved ones carry the burden of it.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Héctor murmured, apologizing for Felipe not being able to go. Not even having the freedom of that choice because of what Héctor had done. What hurt the most was that he was the bad role model, the screw up, the black sheep. Sometimes it felt, if it weren’t for him, the  _familia_  would have a happier life.

“It was good,” Felipe said slowly. “I remembered what was important, what  _familia_  meant. What I could never give up. Even for someone like Paolo…”

“No,” No that wasn’t right. It wasn’t and he knew it, even if he didn’t really have a place to speak from. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone with Ernesto,  _sí_. Maybe that had been a bad idea. Despite the fact that Ernesto had been as much  _familia_  as she and Coco had been.

Were.

 Was Ernesto still…?

No he wasn’t going to think about that, he told himself.

“Imelda…” he hesitated, then pushed on. “Imelda would…want you to…to be happy. Go or stay, I don’t think you could ever disappoint her. Except…” He looked up at Felipe, meeting his eyes. “If you gave up on yourself.”

Felipe looked down at the beer, tapping his finger against the handle. The glass sat between them now, almost empty. Héctor wanted to refill it, To press it into Felipe’s hands and wrap an arm around his shoulders like he’d done that night. He could remember the sturdiness of the wall at his back and the chilly December breeze that seemed to chill him even further when Felipe told him his dangerous secret. That he had tried all he could to be attracted to women but just couldn’t get it.

 Felipe had cried, too, Héctor remembered sharply. Because it had been so hard. Because he’d been fighting and trying so long for nothing. Héctor had given him the bottle of tequila that they had been sharing and had held him close, feeling the shuddering of his shoulders, wishing for a way to change the world so that Felipe wouldn’t be in tears over something as simple as attraction.

The frustrating thing now was that the world had changed, and yet Felipe’s problems remained because some  _flojo_  couldn’t get anything right to save his life. Literally. Héctor reminded himself to breathe, even though he didn’t have to. Instead he reached out and tentatively touched the back of Felipe’s hand, feeling the faint vibration of bone against bone.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” he said. “But if you’re worried… eh, that the  _familia_  will be put under more stress… Well, you know, Imelda shines under pressure.”

“I know…” Felipe said with a faint smile.

“Aannd it might be a welcome distraction given…everything. So, you guys are having a New Year’s  _fiesta_ , right? Bring him to that! Let them meet him and take care of him. Trust them to welcome him. Let your  _familia_  take care of him. I mean, like you said…” he shrugged, looking at his finger bones white against the table. “There’s…there’s never going to be a good time.”

Felipe grunted, finished the beer and set the glass back down with a thump.

“You’re right,” he said and Héctor wished he’d argued, even a little. That there might be a good time. That it wouldn’t just be…this.

“I’d better hunt him down,” Felipe added, sounding tired.

“I won’t stand in your way,” Héctor said, shaking off the blues as best he could to wrench a smile on his face, reminding himself that it might be rough but if Paolo took to the  _familia_ , well, Imelda seemed to have a way of adopting people. He thought of Rosita and badgered a sense of warmth inside his heart so he could actually have hope for this.

Felipe stood and Héctor gave him a little wave, trying to look cheerful but given Felipe’s somber expression, he wasn’t sure he was succeeding.

“Take care of yourself,  _Primo_ ,” Felipe said and Héctor felt another dash of warmth at that. He was all set to smile and nod and turn back to peer gloomily in the empty beer glass when Dante barked and, in a flash, Héctor remembered what he’d come here for.

“Oh! I wanted to ask!” Héctor said, scrambling up and reaching out to grab the back of Felipe’s sleeve but stopping just as the man turned around. He dropped his hand, then rubbed his arm. “Iii was wondering what to do for Imelda’s birthday. If…I should get her something or… come to the  _fiesta_  or…”

Felipe was giving him a sad look and Héctor couldn’t even be mad at the universe anymore, just a little mad at himself for not expecting it.

“She doesn’t celebrate it,” he said. Of course she didn’t. “On her birthday we get out of her way, let her clean.” He shrugged. “We leave her little gifts around the house that she can find. She enjoys that but… Beyond that, it’s best to let her be.”

“Oh… I see…” That was cute in a sad way. He wondered if he left her a little gift if she’d like it or throw it out the window. Maybe he shouldn’t risk her wrath. Maybe he should just let it go and do what he did every year by drinking to her health and thinking of all they could have done and been if he hadn’t been the biggest  _idiota_  in México.  

“ _Gracias_ ,” he muttered. He expected Felipe to leave then. Wanted him to almost. To be left alone to shake off the gloom and go again for the hopeless search for tequila. But then Felipe lay a hand on his shoulder, lightly squeezing his collarbone and Héctor felt a sudden sting of emotion and blinked rapidly though there weren’t any tears to fight.

“I understand why you left, even if I can’t forgive it,” Felipe said, his voice gentle enough so it gave Héctor a flicker of hope despite the words. “But I can forgive you not coming back, because that wasn’t your fault. …And if I ever come face to face with that  _cabron_ , I will make him eat his teeth one by one.” Héctor winced a little, relief and worry knotting through him. The words forgiven were like cool water on a burn, like a part of him could finally relax.

At the same time he had to clamp his mouth around the defense of Ernesto which sprang easily into his throat, afraid that Felipe would take that blessed forgiveness away. He felt guilty for not defending Ernesto, felt guilty for wanting to, wished he could have just choked on a chorizo, which would have solved everyone’s problems…

“I’ve got to go,” Felipe said, giving his shoulder another gentle squeeze. “But don’t look so down,  _Primo_. It’ll work out. Probably.”

Probably… Héctor had to smile a little. Felipe was always like that. Always a little doubt at the end just in case. For emergencies, Héctor always thought. He nodded.

“ _Gracias_ ,” he said. For everything. For forgiveness especially. It was an ember of a blessing but one he would hold carefully in his heart. Felipe returned the nod and then with a small smile, turned to leave, waving at the barman as he left. Héctor breathed a little sigh of relief once the door closed. The silence filtered back in. The music a low buzz.

What a night.

He kind of just wanted to sit back at the table and thunk his forehead against it. Or go back to the bungalow and try to sleep. Staying here was going to be  _no bueno_ , so the bungalow it was. Maybe he could even sort through some of Cheech’s remaining things to find something to trade for at least passable tequila.

What a way to honor him, he thought bitterly, moving to the back of the cantina and opening a window, feeling a surge of gilt at not being able to pay for the beer. He lifted Dante out then squirmed out himself, feeling a little better now that he was outside with the city rising around him.

So far he’d accomplished absolutely nothing except gotten some information and gained a little forgiveness. He rested a hand on his breastbone absently. At least Imelda still accepted presents. And maybe would like something from him, he thought, remembering her smile, her beautiful hum. It wouldn’t hurt her anyway to know he was thinking of her.

And at least with this gift, he knew just the thing.

o.o.o.o.o.o

 

It was deep night. The darkest part when most everything was still. It inspired sleep in most, or at least dozing or staring absently into nothing. Most of the  _familia_  would be the same, Héctor was sure, and even he felt a little drawn to sleep though he’d done nothing for the last handful of hours but lie about in the bungalow and stare at the rafters, sad and tequilaless.  He hadn’t bothered to look at all today yet despite the fact the  _Fiesta_  was tomorrow. New Years. The whole Land of the Dead waiting on bated breath for the celebration. No one would be disappointed that he was empty handed, he thought. Everyone would understand. The man who never came through, that was him.

But at least, he thought, he could come through with this. He glanced at the little bunch of red silk flowers he’d traded a few rusted birdcages for. He’d wrapped a little poem around it and tied it up with a scrap of ribbon he’d found.

            A little gift for Imelda. Before her birthday sure, but she’d know what it meant. He wandered up to the house, peering as best he could to makes sure the lights were all off. He kicked something in the darkness that rolled and saw it was a stub of a candle. There were more here with burnt wicks and some left over flowers, frayed a bit about the edges.

Shrines, he thought with a half smirk. He didn’t even want to know for who.

He moved around the house as silent as he could, glad that he’d left Dante behind sleeping. He was a good dog. A good  _alebrije_. But Héctor was an earthquake enough without bringing him along and he didn’t want to wake Imelda up. He didn’t even want to see her. Or at least, didn’t want her to see him. He could watch her from the distance any day of the week.

Her light was off too, he saw with a sigh. Not a beam coming from the shuttered balcony doors. The only light was the glow of Pepita, dimmed now as she snoozed, head tucked under her wing, snores like purrs rolling out of her. Of course Imelda would have a large terrifying  _alebrije_  that purred when she slept.

 He shook his head fondly and then pulled off his arm, then had to take a moment to stare at it. That had been…smooth. His arm usually came off easily, but mostly with a little shuddery click. This had been as quiet and easy as letting out a breath. In a fit of paranoia, he reattached it and found that it slipped back into place just as easily.

Was this what being remembered felt like?

Well he’d think about that later.

He hooked his arm into his suspenders, aimed and fired, feeling the arc and wincing as he clattered loudly against the shutters. Why didn’t he think about that! He waited, wincing, for the doors to fly open, for Imelda to scowl down at him. But no sound came. Letting out a breath he released the flowers and finger walked his way back to the balcony’s edge.

Suddenly, grabbed! Fingers wrapped around his arm and he found himself being pulled back even as he frantically tried to tug away.

“This had better be you, Héctor,” Imelda said, slipping out from under Pepita’s wing and coming to the edge of the balcony. Had…had she been…had she been snuggling with her  _alebrije_?

Oh…

Oh… that was adorable!

It was too adorable to think about! And dangerous… Especially as tried to keep his thoughts from imagining snuggling in there with her, wrapping her up in his arms, leaning against the warm feathery fur, the glow pulsing around them as they slept in that rumbling purr. He could imagine her shifting to get comfortable, then turning to look at him, face washed with pale green light, watching him under her lashes, her mouth parting as she said:

“Héctor?” Imelda said again, voice with an edge to it.

Oh Right. He’d better let her know before she thought he was some creepy shrine person.

He slipped back to where she could see him, waving sheepishly. He couldn’t really see her expression from here, as she was mostly caught in shadow; but he wondered if she was annoyed. Probably. He should get out of here before he made it worse.

“ _Hola_ ,” he said in a hushed whisper. “I was um… just…” Giving her something for her birthday? Could he say that?  _Ay_ , why had he written her a poem? Why had he written her a poem and then  _given_  it to her? What had he been thinking? What if she read it while he was standing right here. What if she didn’t like it? What if she  _did_? No no. He couldn’t let that scenario play out in his head like it was already doing because if she did like it she’d probably find something to throw at him or bury her face in her hand or be furious in that wonderful way that made his heart soar.

But she would probably be mad, he told himself.

He should really get away before she was.

 But first he needed to get his arm back.

“Did you need something?” she asked, resting one elbow on the balcony’s edge and draping her hand clutching his arm over it. He tried to keep his fingers still and not wiggle frantically trying to get away. Did he need something? What could he say?

_Ay_ , the earth was already rumbling, wasn’t it?

“Ah, nothing! Just… uh… delivery… um… something… But I didn’t mean to wake you so now I’m going to go.” He tried to call his arm back but her fingers tightened and she rose, folding her own arms while his, in her grip, went limp in despair.

“Don’t take my arm, Imelda, _por favor_ ,” he found himself saying, nearly whimpering. “I need that.”

“Do you?” But she sounded amused.

Not that that meant anything!

So his heart could stop thumping so loud right now!

“It seems to me that you’d get in less trouble if you had only one.” Still amused but her words were like a whack to the gut.

_Ay…._ That was really all he was, wasn’t it? Even to her…

“No… I’d get into as much trouble. Maybe even more,” he said in a half joking way; amused at himself even though it stung. She hummed as if she agreed with him. He wished he could make out her expression. He wished he could tell what she was thinking. She began to rub her thumb against his arm which wasn’t distracting at all and he tried to prevent the shiver which would rattle him all over. He wanted to climb up there somehow and be with her and--

No.

No he had to get out of this before the bad things happened.

And they would.

They would, they would , they always did. They did now and they had back then. When he remembered, for all the things that had gone right; so much had gone wrong. She was always there to fix his mistakes. To make things better somehow, like magic. Did it ever tire her, he wondered? Did she ever resent it?

“Imelda… Imelda listen… I get it now… I…” He should have never have gone for her in the first place. He’d never deserved her in the first place. She was always so much better than him and could have done better and he didn’t know what he had done to make her like him except maybe because it was the worst possible thing. “I’m… I’m an earthquake…”

“A what?”

“A disaster a-- I don’t know. I’m tired of-- of always getting things wrong. Of always messing up. I can’t even get tequila for one of my oldest  _amigos_. Not that I can call him that because I borrowed so much and could never…” He shook his head. “I’m just… just a  _chispero_ , okay? I don’t belong in this  _familia_. In this life. I-- I belong where I am! I belong how I am! How can someone like this be anyone’s Papá? How could I be…” He took a few deep breaths, but it didn’t help.

 “…and I want to look for Ernesto,” he blurted, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Not to her. Not like this. Not now. But why not? It was the worst possible timing, when else would he say it? Sure she would hate him all over again but that was inevitable anyway because he couldn’t get it together. “I am so  _estupido_. Such a  _tonto_.” He kicked a candle. “I know everything he did and I can’t forgive him but I can’t stop worrying. What if he’s alone? What if he’s broken? I--”

“Héctor…” she said, so softly, so tenderly that his heart stopped. The world stopped. As if the only thing that existed in life and death was his name in that way on her lips. Pepita uncurled, leaning down toward him and Héctor thought if he died again being eaten by an  _alebrije_  it would be worth it. He felt the creature’s hot breath ghosting over him and suddenly he was lifted in the air to the balcony and Imelda’s arms.

He … He didn’t get it.

What was happening?

How could this be happening?

Was he dreaming?

What a cruel dream if it was.

What a wonderful dream if it was.

“You are a disaster,” she said, her hands settling against his spine, her head against his ribcage, he could smell her hair. He wanted to cry more than he ever did. “You cause more trouble than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Why did he want to fly?

Why was his heart singing?

“But that is who you are. And of course you are worried about De la Cruz because your  _estupido_  heart is bigger than your brains. You love too much, my Teto.”

Her Teto.

_Her_ Teto…

He shouldn’t have come.

How was he going to live when those sweet words were singeing his useless brain?

“And as earthquake as you are, we are a strong  _familia_. We can handle you and everything you bring to our door, one step at a time.” She let him go and pushed his arm back to place where it set seamlessly, easily, as if it had always been there, as if it had never really left.

“But… But Imelda… I don’t want to cause trouble…” Her fingers pressed against his mouth and he had to prevent himself from kissing them, from taking her hand and kissing her palm, her wrist, the joint of her elbow. To pressing his mouth against her neck and hearing and feeling her breath catch as her pulse jumped under his lips.

“You’re--” her voice was rough. “You’re… not … not the only one whose made them… made them suffer.” She said, as if she was speaking through glass and his heart shattered all over again.

“Imelda…”

“No, don’t … don’t use that voice.” She turned away, arms folded, caged against herself. He wanted to hold her. To hug her. To tell her everything would be alright. That he would make it alright. They both knew he couldn’t.

“Listen,” she said, then took a deep breath and turned back toward him, her hand suddenly on his chest like a brand. “Don’t give up. I won’t give up. We’ll-- we’ll--we’ll figure this out. You-- you  _will_  belong here.  _sí_?” She said it like a demand and  _ay,_ he loved her. How could anyone not? She was so determined, so furious, trying to even tell the universe what to do. But he wished she didn’t have to work so hard.

“ _Sí_ ,” he said, his own voice rough. “ _Sí_ , I’ll do anything Imelda.” And he wanted to say her name again and again, as many times as she could bear it.

“You don’t have-- just--” She shook her head. “ _Gracias_.” She said. For what, he didn’t know. Though he felt as if she was ending that conversation, pushing it away to crack it between her teeth later. “And as for De la Cruz…” Her fingers pressed against him and she was looking away, half turned away, as if fighting with whatever decision she was making.

“Oh, Imelda, I won’t--I swear I won’t--”

“We both know you will,” she said, voice like a snapping twig and he knew she was right. He knew. Even though he hated himself for it. Even though he wished he were anyone else with a smaller heart and a bigger brain.

“Just-- don’t let him hurt you.” He could hear her heel bone clack against the ground as she stomped her foot. “If you disappear again. If you—If you aren’t—” She sucked in a breath and thumped her closed fist lightly against his breastbone.  “Be careful for once in your  _estupido_  life? Be careful so you can--” But whatever she was going to say, she didn’t. Just shook her head again and turned away completely.

She cared.

It was beautiful.

It was sad.

He didn’t deserve it.

He longed for it with every part of his being.

He gently took her shoulders, telling himself not to kiss any part of her.

“I’ll be careful.”

“Ha!”

“I’ll try. I’ll-- I don’t know what else to say.  _L-- Lo siento_. But this is why—why I—I’m an earthquake. Why it’s terrible. Why I’m afraid to be here.” He rested his forehead against her hair. It was so soft. His arms ached to go around her, to hold her close and never let go but—but it wouldn’t do any good. “I am so tired of breaking your heart,” he murmured.

“I hate you,” she said and he knew she meant it both ways and he did too, but only the one. There was nothing he could say to it. He just listened to her harsh breathing and Pepita’s rolling purrs as the  _alebrije_  watched them with a lazy calm. Slowly her breathing came back to normal and she shook off his hands, dismissive. He let her go, the sensation of her seeming to stay on his bones, the scent of her in the cavity of his nose.

She started for the door and then stopped, maybe looking at the flowers he’d left her, but didn’t move to pick them up. He braced himself for them being thrown or crushed under her heel. He would deserve both. She should toss it to the ground and never think of it again but…

“If you go…” she said quietly. “When you go… Don’t go alone. Take one of us with you. Not me because I will shred him apart bone by bone until there is nothing left but his skull and then I will rip his jaw off and somehow make him eat it.”

He winced, but oddly of all the threats to Ernesto’s life tonight, this one felt the most deserved.

“Felipe, Oscar. Julio... Or even one of your  _amigos_. But if you promise me nothing else.” Her voice was hard again as she cut her hand to the side. “Promise me that you’ll be with  _someone_.”

“I promise, Imelda. I swear.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath, then straightened. “Wait by the front gate.”

“…What?” That was out of nowhere.

“Just do it!” she snapped, scooping up the flowers and his heart along with it. He thought he saw her hold them to her chest, heard the crinkle of paper. His heart surged, fingers of light warmed through him. It was strange because even though she slammed the door behind her and he knew he’d said and done things he shouldn’t—that tonight had not gone well—he felt lighter somehow. He felt… lifted. As if…as if suddenly…there was a chance. As if suddenly there was hope. Not that he dared to hope for… for too much but even just to come back to the  _familia_. To be accepted here. To be part of their lives. Coco’s life. Imelda’s.

“Can it really happen?” he asked Pepita because she was there. The  _alebrije_ blinked slowly at him. Héctor reached out to tentatively pet her nose. She pushed her muzzle into his palm, the purring seeming to grow deeper, her lantern bright eyes closing and one giant paw kneading even larger claws against the balcony. It felt like an answer, it felt like a  _benedición._

After a moment, she nudged him then, toward the balcony’s edge, and he remembered suddenly that Imelda had told him to wait by the gate. He stood on the railing, preparing to jump, and yelped when Pepita grabbed him by the back of the  _chaqueta_  again and lowered him.

It was sweet.

What a precious  _alebrije._

“Ah _, muchas gracias_ ,” he said to her. For many things. For tonight. For looking after Imelda, the  _familia_. For just being what she was, a giant terrifying flying cat, furious and gentle and protective. He wiggled his fingers in a goodbye and then hurried to wait by the front gate. After a moment he heard Imelda striding across the stone and he tensed, trying to look… look something other than apologetic because he knew that would annoy her.

 She poked her head through the gate, spotted him,  and sighed deeply, telling him he’d failed.

“ _Lo si—_ ” he stopped when she shook her head and then thrust two bottles of tequila at him,  letting go of them so fast he had to juggle them to keep one from falling to the ground.

 “Wh--what?” he said, looking at them, somehow not really understanding what he was seeing, what she meant by that.

“For your  _amigo_ ,” she said, voice short, still looking angry as hell with her hair in a wild disarray around her and he was sorry and sorry for loving her in that moment with that look in her eye. But also sorry for having to do this. For having to take care of him like this.

“Imelda, you don’t have to go to the trouble…”

“ _Familia_ is all  _about_ trouble!” she snapped. “Oscar would spend an hour in a half in the  _one_ bathroom every morning, with  _seven_ other people waiting. Coco can’t meet a vagrant she doesn’t want to befriend. Victoria always forgets vital things in a panic and set the kitchen on fire one year so we had to rebuild it.”

“She sounds like me,” Héctor said with a startled laugh.

“More than you know,” Imelda said flatly and his heart did a strange little sad  _grito_  at that.

“Ah! What’s her  _hermanitas_ name?” Héctor said, suddenly remembering he didn’t know.

“Elena,” Imelda said, then sighed, one hand on her hip, ticking off on her fingers with the other. “She married Franco and had Alberto, Enrique who is Miguel’s Papá, and Gloria. Berto married Carmen and had Abel, Rosa, Benny and Manny, the twins. Enrique married Luisa and had Miguel a few years after Rosa was born and they’ve been trying for a second.”

That… was staggering. He shifted the bottles so he could count up on his own fingers.  _Twenty_  people in the  _familia_.   Twenty.

Twenty!

He didn’t know how to deal with twenty!

“The point is, Teto,” she said, drawing his attention back to her, caught in the light of the house, staring at the bottles. She was dangerously beautiful. Dangerously close. “ _Familia_ is trouble. You may be an earthquake but everyone is some kind of disaster in their own way.” She rested her hand on one of the bottles of tequila and her bone clinked like a tiny chime.

“That doesn’t mean they are any less deserving,” she said. “That doesn’t mean we don’t find the good in who they are. You shake up everything around you but…” She rested her head against the post, tracing an invisible pattern on the bottle with her fingertips. The sound of it made his knees weak. Then she met his eyes and he wanted to die, but so would anyone who she looked at like that. Just keel over and go straight up to  _paraíso_ , though even that would pale in comparison with what was right here.

“…Sometimes we need it,” she said, and he realized suddenly that she was talking about him. What… why… how…?

She seemed to be looking for him to say something. He couldn’t. He could barely move.  Was it his imagination, or was that a faint smile. She leaned toward him and pressed a kiss against his cheek before stepping back and giving him a long devastating look under her lashes. 

“Have a good New Year,” she said and he knew he should say it back. Return it. Willed the voice to come out.

“H-happy… you… Happy to you… You too…” he managed somehow. She breathed a laugh if he had wings he’d be fifty feet in the air just from the pure wonderful shock of it.

“ _Hasta luego_ ,” she said softly, touching his cheek before disappearing back through the gate, shutting it softly behind her.

He thumped against the wall, trying to breathe, trying to sort out his thoughts. So much  _familia._  So much  _familia_  that he could possibly one day belong to. That Imelda wanted him to belong to. Despite everything. Despite who and what he was. He didn’t know  _how_  she could want that. How she could want him. She knew it frustrated her too and he knew he had hurt her so deeply she might never return to who she once was. And yet…

And yet…

And yet for reasons her own…

She was giving him a chance to live again.

A chance at redemption.

How could he express something like that? What could he do about it? He couldn’t move but the emotions swirled so violently though him that he had to do something or explode in a pile of useless bones.

Then the words came to his mind, soft and stinging sweet. He took a deep breath and let the words slip past his lips, carrying the emotion with them but softly, so softly that no one but an  _alebrije_ could hear.

“A feeling so close I could reach out and touch it… I never knew I could want something so much but it’s true…” He pressed the bottle of tequila against his cheek where her fingers had been.  “And even though I don’t know how to deserve it. I am so grateful to know that I love you.”

 

 

 


End file.
